IC-NRLF 


IbS    Til 


.CON 


,  .     OTHER! 


THE    SLOPES   OF   HELICON 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 

LLOYD    MIFFLIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  AT  THE  GATES  OF  SONG 


The  best  of  this  kind  are  but  shadows 
—  SHAKESPEARE 


Illustrated 


BOSTON 
ESTES   AND    LAURIAT 

MDCCCXCVIIl 


Copyright,  z8<)8 
BY  LLOYD  MIFFLIN 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO   THE   MEMORY 
OF 

jJHg  Bear  ilftatJjtr 

WHO    DIED   WHILE    I    WAS 
IN    MY    EARLY    CHILDHOOD 

AND  THE   SOLACE 

OF  WHOSE   COMPANIONSHIP 

I   NEVER   KNEW 


346459 


And  trust  me  while  I  turned  the  page 
And  tracked  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

— TENNYSON 


CONTENTS 


I.     THE    SLOPES    OF    HELICON 

PAGE 

THE   SLOPES   OF   HELICON  .  .  .  .  I 

ARIADNE   IN    NAXOS  .  .  .  .         ?.  -19 

THE   DETHRONED .21 

FROM    MOSCHUS 24 

POLYPHEMUS    TO    ULYSSES 25 

WITH   WINGED    STEPS .26 

CALLIOPE 27 

II.     PASTORALS 

IN   CLOVER   BLOOMS  .  .  .  ....  31 

THE   HILLS 32 

TO  A   FARMER — POOR   AND   OLD       •  •  •  •  35 

THE  CARDINAL-BIRD 36 

IN   THE   FIELDS •  •  37 

EPIG^EA 39 

IN   THE   PEACH   ORCHARD 40 

BIRDS   AND  THE    POET 4! 


Vll 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LOCUST-TREES   .       .       .       .       .       .  43 

BEFORE  DAWN .  44 

FAREWELL,  YE  FIELDS 45 

MANDRAGORA    .       .       .       .       .       .       .  47 

WINTER'S  HERE  INDEED  .        .        .        .  .48 

III.     SONNETS 

FROM    THE    BATTLEMENTS  .  .  .           .  -53 

TWILIGHT    FROM   THE   LAWN  .  .  ...  -54 

THE   TRIO               .            .           .  .  .  .           .  -55 

NOVEMBER             .           .     *     .  V  .  «"        .  .         56 

SUMMER'S  SOUNDS     .        .        ...        .        .        -57 

THE   PROCESSION  .  .  ...  .  .         58 

A    CATTLE   PICTURE    BY   CUYP    .  ...  -59 

THE  VICTOR         .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .60 

OPENING    OF   THE    URNS      .  .  .  .  ^        .         6l 

THE   STORM-CLOUDS 62 

APRIL   THE   TWENTY-THIRD 63 

LOOKING  AT   THE  WEST     .  .  .  .  .  '        .         64 

THE   SEASONS -65 

AND  THEY  SHALL  SEE  HIS  FACE  .  i .  .  .  .66 
DAWN  IN  ARQUA  .  .  .  .'  .  .  .  67 
HOMEWARD  BOUND  .  68 

IV.  BENEATH  THE  RAVEN'S  WING 

IN    THE   CYPRESS    SWAMP   .  „  *  .  .  .  7 1 

A   WINTER   TWILIGHT           .  .  »  .  .  •  72 

YOLANDE    .          /.           .           .  .:  ,-v*  .  .  .  •  73 

CALIBAN      .  .          '.     ;      .  .  V  .  .  77 

viii 


CONTENTS 


FAGB 

80 

THE    DEAD   QUEEN'S    LOVER          .           *           .           i 

.           8l 

THE   LAND   OF    NEVERMORE          .           .           .           . 

'           83 

AVENGED    .                       .           .            .           .           » 

.           85 

V.     ARROWS    OF   EROS 

OH,    NOT  ON    THE    FIELD     .           .           •          / 

.           89 

THE   CAPTIVE       .           .           .           ,           .           »      s     . 

.           QO 

HER    ROSES             .           .           ... 

.           QI 

SIRENS           .           .           .           .           .           .  '        .           . 

•      93 

THE    MOON-SHIP           .           .           .           .           .      *    . 

.      94 

BETRAYED        |    .           .           .           ,           .           . 

•      95 

IN    PALL-MALL         .      .           .           .           .           . 

.      96 

THE    LUNCH    AL    FRESCO     

•      97 

A   FRIEND   NO    MORE              .           .           .           . 

.      98 

THE   LIGHT   WITHIN               

.      99 

MY    SOURCE   OF   LIGHT          

.       IOO 

TAKE   BACK   YOUR    WORDS           .           .  ) 

.       101 

BY  THE   FROZEN    RIVER      , 

.       102 

FROM    DAWN   TILL   DUSK    .           .           .           . 

.       104 

WHERE   HAVE  THEY   GONE           .... 

.       105 

GO   ON    WITH  THE   PLAY     .           .           . 

.       107 

1  08 

VI.     MINOR   CHORDS 

BLIGHT 

.       Ill 

ix 


CONTENTS 

ABOVE  THE  TREES      .        ^ 

"HEIGHT,  THE   MA.D/AND  THE   MINSTREL 

THE   SINGER         • 

LONGFELLOW       . 

THE  WATCHER  .  • 

TO   A   BABY  . 

A  WINTER   DIRGE        .  •      -    • 

ROLAND   TO   THE   NUN          . 

BEYOND  THE   HILLS 

BENEATH   THE   PALM 

THE   ROAD 

THEY    BRING   THEIR    FLOWERS 

MY   FATHER   AT   EIGHTY    . 

A    POET'S    BOOKCASE 

THE  ANNIVERSARY     . 

MY   LADY   FAIR 

O   WHAT   IS   SONG  • 

THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  SEA    . 

THE  WING   OF   DEATH 

O   EARTH     . 

ODE  TO   THE   MEMORY    OF    KEATS 

THE   IDEALISTS  1 

MARINERS 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS    . 

FOOTFALLS  ON   THE   STAIRS        . 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT    OF   THE   AUTHOR 

From  a  Photograph,  —  Feb.,  1898  .        .        .     Frontispiece 

THE  SLOPES  OF   HELICON     From  pen  drawing  by  L.  M. 

Where  Cyparissus  shot  the  stag g 

WITH   WINGED   STEPS     From  pen  drawing  by  L.  M. 

Oh,  not  by  Arethusan  fountains  fair 26 

THE   HILLS     From  pen  drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A.  • 

But  high  upon  some  cloudy  crest 34 

FAREWELL,   YE   FIELDS     Drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

Nor  mark  the  slant  sun  tip  the  tasselled  corn         ...      45 

THE   SEASONS    From  pen  drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

And  worshipped  Autumn  on  her  misty  crest  .        .        .        .61; 

THE   LAND   OF   NEVERMORE     By  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

And  gracious  girlhood  bloomed  and  blossomed  there    .        .      83 

BETRAYED    From  pen  drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

Sink  down,  O  lurid  sun 95 

BY  THE  FROZEN   RIVER    Drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

And  Winter  reigns  where  Summer  failed        .        .        .        .102 

BEYOND  THE   HILLS     From  drawing  by  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

Is  there  no  balm  of  sweet  repose 127 

ODE  TO  THE   MEMORY   OF    KEATS     By  T.  MORAN,  N.A. 

And  softer  than  the  sound  of  waters  falling    .        .        .        .143 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Among  the  faint  Olympians 

—  HYPERION 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 
The  Slopes  of  Helicon 

TO    MARZIO    DI    COLONNA 


O  FRIEND,  though  now  't  is  many  a  day 
Since  o'er  the  blue  Ionian  sea 
Our  sails  took  wing  from  Italy, 

And  in  th'  ^gean's  rocky  bay 

Were  furled,  yet  bear,  though  late,  from  me 

One  reminiscent  lay ; 

) 

ii 

From  me,  who,  under  snow-clad  trees 
Here  on  the  Pennsylvania  hills, 
Across  the  years  of  joys  and  ills 

Look  back,  and  seem  to  hear  the  breeze 

Once  more  above  Idalian  rills 
Beyond  the  Cyclades  — 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


III 

Beyond  those  sapphire  isles  asleep, 

Seen  in  alternate  glow  and  gloom  — 
Faint  Tenos,  bathed  in  purple  bloom 

And  Delos,  wanderer  of  the  deep ; 

With  Naxos,  Ariadne's  tomb; 
And  Melos,  blue  and  steep. 


IV 

Remember,  how,  beneath  the  pine, 
Upon  Hellenic  slopes  we  lay  — 
Where  beauty  consecrates  decay, 
Mantling  the  ruin  with  her  vine  — 
We  thought  the  earth  ethereal  clay, 
The  Olympian  air,  divine. 


And  on  idyllic  hills  of  green, 

Recall  how  long  it  kept  aloof  — 
That  spot  the  winged  courser's  hoof 
First  struck,  —  and  how,  when  later  seen, 
We  quaffed,  to  put  it  to  the  proof, 
The  Attic  Hippocrene. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


VI 

And  after  we  had  drunken  there, 

We  fancied  all  the  landscape  teemed 
With  shapes  of  which  we  long  had 

dreamed, — 

Of  god  and  goddess  passing  fair, 
Whose  immemorial  forms  still  gleamed 
Across  that  finer  air. 

VII 

'T  was  then,  below  the  rustling  trees, 
In  shadowy  copse  across  the  lawn, 
We  peered,  to  mark  some  Nymph  or 

Faun; 

And  as  a  balm  for  missing  these  — 
Still  there,  but  from  our  sight  withdrawn  - 
We  heard  the  Hybla  bees. 

VIII 

We  felt  the  aura  Zephyr  brings ; 

Then  Cupid  in  the  shade  espied 
Asleep,  his  quiver  by  his  side 
Folded  beneath  his  purple  wings ;  — 
Heard  murmurs  in  the  air  that  vied 
With  Heliconian  strings  : 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


IX 

Not  murmurs  of  the  mundane  years, 
Nor  song  of  any  mortal  bird, 
But  sounds  the  old  Olympians  heard 
And  still  ecstatic  Poet  hears  — 
A  rhythmic  paean,  void  of  word, 
A  music  of  the  spheres. 


Then  from  above  the  slumberous  lea 
We  gazed  upon  the  ancient  sky ; 
Saw  him  who  to  the  sun  would  fly, 

Far  in  the  blue's  immensity 

Pause,  wingless,  and  with  one  last  sigh 
Drop  in  th'  Icarian  sea. 


XI 

We  marked  a  god  a  maid  pursue  — 

Back  from  his  brow  his  yellow  hair 
Glowed  like  a  sunset  cloud  in  air  — 

And  as  he  clutched  her,  swift  from  view, 

The  Naiad,  like  to  laurel  fair, 
A  Hamadryad  grew. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XII 

Then  saw  we  him  who  on  that  isle 

Renounced  the  blare  of  war's  alarms, 
And,  overpowered  by  her  charms  — 

The  goddess  of  the  heart  of  guile  — 

Lapped  in  the  lilies  of  her  arms 
Forgot  the  world  awhile. 

XIII 

Remember,  then,  behind  us  stirred, 

From  unseen  dells  beyond  the  cove, 
Gay  Bacchic  chantings,  interwove 

With  flutings  sweeter  than  a  bird ; 

When,  out  before  us  from  the  grove, 
A  Satyr,  sudden,  skirred. 

XIV 

He  stopped  beside  us  as  he  danced,  — 
Stopped  short,  and  prick'd  a  caprine 

ear 

Beyond  his  budding  horns,  to  hear 
The  clang  of  cymbals  that  advanced 
Breeze-borne,  as  from  some  charmed  sphere, 
To  us  ward,  so  it  chanced. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XV 

A  roistering  rout  filed  by  our  side ; 

The  flushed  Bacchantes,  ruddy-fair, 
Wove  vine-leaves  in  their  tawny  hair; 

A  youth,  upon  a  leopard  pied, 

'Mid  scent  of  grapes  that  lingered  there, 
Triumphantly  did  ride. 


XVI 

Lured  to  the  spot,  as  they  passed  by, 
The  goat-foot  Pan  came  from  the 

meads, 
And  seeing  Syrinx  through  tall  weeds, 

Gave  chase  all  ineffectually ; 

Then,  sullen,  wrought  that  pipe  of  reeds 
Among  the  tussocks  high. 

XVII 

While,  in  the  rocky  uplands  near, 

From  undergrowths  of  laurel  cool, 
We  heard  a  voice  which  did  befool 
The  rapt  attention  of  the  ear, 
When  he  of  Thespis,  in  the  pool, 
Dropped  his  pathetic  tear. 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XVIII 

And  then,  upon  a  sea  of  blue, 

We  watched  the  curled  foam  gather 
white, 

Where,  to  a  goddess  exquisite, 
Slowly  the  willing  waters  grew ; 
While  cupids,  winged,  o'erhead  were  bright 

With  Love's  rubescent  hue. 


XIX 

And  further,  on  the  Libyan  main, 

Chained  to  a  cliff,  and  like  to  die, 
We  saw  a  naked  beauty  lie  ; 
When,  through  the  air  above  the  plain, 
He  with  the  Gorgon's  head  went  by, 
And  broke  her  ruthless  chain. 


xx 

Then  saw  we  him  of  Ocean  born, 

Whose  crime  and  passion  was  to  know, 
Alone  upon  Caucasian  snow 

Calm  and  defiant,  though  forlorn ; 

Godlike  —  with  genius  on  his  brow  — 
Filled  with  immortal  scorn ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXI 

We  marked  a  misty  peak  in  air, 

Where  clouds  of  sulphurous  smoke 

upcurled ; 
While  the  brute  giant  seaward  hurled 

Rock  after  rock  in  his  despair, 

The  Ithacan  his  sails  unfurled, 
And  left  him,  eyeless,  there. 

XXII 

Recall  that  sound  as  of  a  lute, 

When  from  the  empyrean  deep, 
We  saw  the  eagle  downward  sweep, 
And,  as  we  gazed  in  wonder  mute, 
Bear  up  a  lad  from  'mid  his  sheep, 
Who  dropped  a  shepherd's  flute ; 

XXIII 

And  though  full  slowly,  all  around, 

We  searched  the  uplands  where  it  fell, 
O'er  many  a  flowery  hillock-swell 
That  rises  on  that  classic  ground, 
Yet,  on  those  slopes  of  asphodel, 
Nor  pipe  nor  flute  we  found ! 


Where  Cyparissus  shot  the  stat 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXIV 

And  then  that  cypress,  there,  alone,  — 
The  while  our  steps  began  to  lag 
In  toiling  to  the  rocky  crag 
Whereon  it  made  its  throne  — 
Where  Cyparissus  shot  the  stag  — 
Began  to  sigh  and  moan. 


xxv 

And  still  within  that  mythic  air, 

Though  somewhat  lower  in  the  glade, 
And  spreading  wide  her  yewen  shade, 

Sweet  Smilax  grew ;  while  beauteous  there 

Stood  Crocus,  lover  of  the  maid 
Ephemerally  fair. 


XXVI 

Near  by,  with  large  and  languorous  eyes, 
A  wondrous  heifer,  white  and  fawn, 
Grazed  'mid  the  grasses  on  the  lawn ; 
A  Priestess,  she,  in  such  disguise, 
Whom  Jove,  within  his  cloud  withdrawn, 
Transformed,  to  idolize. 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXVII 

We  looked  where  once  lolchos  bloomed ; 
And,  as  the  day  began  to  wane, 
Through  shadow-rays  of  sun  and  rain, 

Appeared  her  temples,  all  relumed ; 

While  o'er  the  soft  Thessalian  plain 
Pelion  and  Ossa  gloomed. 


XXVIII 

And  there  we  saw  the  little  stream 

Where  Jason's  sunken  sandal  lay ; 
And,  snorting,  eager  for  the  fray, 
We  heard  the  Centaur  stallions  scream  — 
Saw  Chiron  all  his  herd  display, 
Until  the  shores  did  teem : 


XXIX 

Beheld  her,  who,  beyond  the  sea, 

With  maidens  gathering  crocus  blooms 
In  Enna's  vale  of  faint  perfumes, 
Walked  on  demure  and  dreamily, 
Till  Dis  stole  her  to  queen  his  glooms  — 
The  sweet  Persephone. 


10 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXX 

A  daughter  of  the  wave  unfurled 

Before  us  then  her  wings,  bedight 
With  all  prismatic  colors  bright ; 

Far  o'er  her  head  the  storm-cloud  curled ; 

But  when  she  smiled  in  her  delight 
A  rainbow  spanned  the  world  ! 


XXXI 

And  there,  like  marble,  on  the  slope, 

The  primal  woman,  —  white  as  snows, 
And  sweeter  than  the  wildwood  rose 
Above  the  banks  of  heliotrope,  — 
Who  brought  to  man  a  thousand  woes, 
Yet  lures  him  still  with  hope. 


XXXII 

And  turning  then,  we  heard  a  groan 

From  out  the  gray-green  olive  borne, 
Piteous  and  sweet,  and  so  forlorn 

'Twould  cause  to  melt  a  heart  of  stone ; 

Childless,  bereft,  by  sorrow  torn, 
She  made  immortal  moan ; 


ii 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXXIII 

While,  like  a  statue,  marble-fair, 

Pallid  within  the  shade  she  stood,  - 
Spouse  of  Amphion,  oh,  how  could 
Latona  cause  her  such  despair  !  — 
Still  sorrowing  for  her  hapless  brood, 
Her  wail  went  down  the  air. 


XXXIV 

And  near  her  side,  some  steps  apart, 

Drawn  by  the  bond  of  poignant  woe, 
A  Nymph  bent  o'er  her  lover  low ; 
And  as  she  saw  the  cruel  dart 
That  dealt  to  him  that  fatal  blow, 
She  stabbed  her  breaking  heart. 


xxxv 

Then  as  the  Rose  of  Ida  fell,  — 

The  crimson  on  her  milk-white  throat,  — 
We  stood  grief-struck,  till  one  clear  note, 
Of  soulful  song  the  miracle, 
Upon  our  hearts  its  pathos  smote  — 
The  voice  of  Philomel ! 


12 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXXVI 

To  hear  her  was  so  rich  a  boon, 

We,  somewhat  taken  by  surprise, 
In  pleased  wonder  raised  our  eyes 
To  where,  from  out  the  copse  of  June, 
flowed  forth  th'  entrancing  ecstasies 
Of  that  delicious  tune  ! 

XXXVII 

It  died  away.  .  .  .  We  heard  a  roar, 

And,  crashing  through  snapped  under 
wood, 

With  jagged  tusks  of  froth  and  blood, 
Swift  past  us  charged  the  bristled  boar ; 
The  youth  lay  dead.  ...  A  wind-flower 

stood 
Upon  the  forest  floor. 

XXXVIII 

And  when  had  passed  the  grisly  brute, 
And  silence  settled  silverly 
In  all  the  dimples  of  the  lea, 

A  Muse  did  then  our  ears  salute,  — 

A  daughter  of  Mnemosyne,  — 
With  her  melodious  lute  ; 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XXXIX 

We  listened  long,  but  all  too  soon 

That  music  ceased  that  seemed  divine 
Not  tinkling  bells  on  distant  kine 
Are  near  so  sweet,  the  while  the  moon 
Stoops  down  beside  the  sighing  brine 
Above  the  twilight  dune  ! 


XL 

We  saw  upon  the  flowery  lea 

A  king's  fair  daughter  —  beautiful 
More  than  all  lilies  which  they  cull 
On  blooming  banks  of  Arcady  — 
Come  forth  to  mount  the  snow-white  bull 
Who  bore  her  o'er  the  sea. 


XLI 

And  now  as  day  was  nearly  done, 

And  as  we  scarcely  dared  to  hope 

That  light  with  darkness  long  could  cope, 

We  paused,  and  marked  Hyperion 

Make  rosy  all  the  upper  slope 
Of  dusky  Helicon. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XLII 

As  Daylight  faded  from  the  plains, 
Above  her  own  refulgent  bier 
We  noted  that  she  made  appear 

Great  funeral  pyres  in  her  fanes ; 

And  then  —  and  then  the  Charioteer 
Drove  down  his  crimson  lanes! 


XLIII 

Beyond  the  dusk  horizon  far, 

We  saw  that  silver  orb  arise,  — 
Fair  as  a  soul  from  Paradise, 
And  lovelier  than  all  others  are 
That  gem  the  amethystine  skies,  — 
Bright  Hesper  —  evening  star ! 

XLIV 

And  they  that  stood  as  sentinels 
Upon  the  ramparts  of  the  air, 
Lit  all  their  lamps,  and  hung  them 

there ; 

While  in  gray  turret-clouds  were  bells, 
That,  as  the  Twilight  sought  her  lair, 
Tolled  out  their  faint  farewells. 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XLV 

And  when  the  wings  of  Nox  grew  wide, 
And  she,  with  all  her  forehead  bowed, 
Rode  near  us  in  her  sable  shroud, 
A  sleeping  youth  we  dim  descried, 
And  saw  the  Huntress  leave  her  cloud, 
To  lie  anear  his  side. 


XLVI 

And  then  a  music  seemed  to  wake 

The  listening  hills  and  dimmer  dales, 
Pathetic  as  a  god's  that  wails 
With  rapture  while  his  heart  doth  ache, — 
Her  song  —  th'  impassioned  nightingale's  — 
That  floods  again  the  brake  ! 


XLVII 

And  when  was  hushed  that  wondrous  tone, 
We  heard  the  sylvan  tangle  stir, 
And,  glimmering  in  the  gloom,  saw  her 

The  purest  and  the  loveliest  one, 

The  last  Olympian  harbinger  — 
Ethereal  and  alone. 


16 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


XLVIII 

Her  spirit  made  an  aureole 

About  her  wings,  which,  eagle-wise 
Pulsed,  as  she  panted  for  the  skies ; 

Her  looks  were  on  some  heavenly  goal ; 

And  from  the  deeps  of  star-like  eyes, 
Glowed  the  immortal  Soul. 


XLIX 

Then  as  the  Hippocrene  divine 

Within  us  there  began  to  wane, 
Faded  each  goddess  and  her  fane; 

Tottered  the  temples  and  the  pine ; 

Vague  phantom-figures  blurred  the  plain, 
And  fled  the  hyaline. 


And  now,  beside  the  silver  seas, 

Our  ship,  upon  the  moonlit  bay 
Did  slow  her  dusky  anchor  weigh ; 
The  while  her  sails  puffed  with  the  breeze, 
We  steered  her  where  we  thought  they  lay 
The  dim  Hesperides. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


LI 

Then  Brizo,  softly  on  our  eyes, 

Laid  velvet  hands ;  and  in  that  dream 
Passed  and  repassed  an  endless  stream 
Of  godlike,  pale  Divinities,  — 
Nor  woke  we  till  the  Auroran  team 
Dazzled  the  dappled  skies. 


L1  Envoi 

LII 

Ah,  Friend,  't  is  many  a  day  since  then, 
Where,  underneath  the  ilex-trees, 
We  saw,  or  deemed  we  saw,  all  these 
Beyond  the  waking  eyes  of  men  — 
O  halcyon  days  by  summer  seas, 
That  cannot  come  again ! 


NORWOOD, 

Dec.,  1897. 


18 


ARIADNE   IN  NAXOS 


Ariadne  in  Naxos 


So  Love  is  gone!  .  .  .  Gone  all  his  passionate  sighs, 
His  rapturous  eyes 

Intense, 

That  poured  their  lava  streams 
Through  dewy  meadows  of  my  soul, 

Till  sense  — 

As  wild  grass  catches  flame  — 
Leapt  into  fire,  and  reason  lost  control 
And  dropped  her  sceptre,  vanquished,  at  his  name. 


So  Love  is  gone !  .  .  .  Then  how  shall  I  e'er  sip 
From  any  lip 
That 's  left, 

Less  velvet  than  his  own, 
My  little  share  of  future  bliss  ? 

Bereft 

Of  his  most  precious  breath, 
Unsweet  will  even  seem  that  baby  kiss 
I  count  on.     Now,  life's  kindest  gift  is  death. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


III 

Thou  sweet  false  Theseus  —  see  these  empty  arms ! 
By  thy  white  charms 

Caressed, 

Immeasurable  joy  we  knew, 
And  felt  th'  immortal  glow, 

Close  pressed 

Like  rose-leaves  in  the  rose 
That  fold  into  each  other  as  they  grow  ! 
Now,  walk  I  here  unsandalled,  save  with  woes. 


IV 

O  Nymphs  of  Naxos,  whither  did  he  go  ? 
Fauns  !  if  ye  know, 

Tell  me 

The  way  the  darling  traitor  went. 
Satyrs !  find  me  the  sod 

That  he 

In  passing  hath  perfumed, 
That  I  may  kneel  to  kiss  the  path  he  trod, 
And  die  upon  the  ground  .  .  abandoned  .  .  doomed  ! 


20 


THE  DETHRONED 


The  Dethroned 

THEY  were  younger  than  Day  or  than  Night  was, 

And  younger  than  Darkness  and  Doom ; 
They  were  born  in  the  prime,  after  Light  was, 

Or  ever  the  world  was  in  bloom. 
They  were  older  than  Love  or  than  Hate  is, 

They  were  older,  by  ages,  than  Death ; 
Upon  Hiddekel,  Gihon,  Euphrates, 

Ere  the  nostrils  of  man  knew  breath, 

And  on  Pison,  where  onyx  and  gold  is, 

They  looked,  ere  the  Dove  and  the  Flood, 
Or  the  city  of  Enoch,  that  old  is, 

Rose  red  as  the  first  brother's  blood. 
More  potential  than  witches  of  Endor, 

Oracles,  prophets  and  seers ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  eyes  was  a  splendor 

Unhurt  by  the  havoc  of  years. 


21 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Crowned  as  queens  on  gold  thrones  empyrean, 

With  harps  and  with  garments  of  light, 
Still  their  hymns,  throughout  aeon  and  aeon, 

Came  down  on  the  pinions  of  night,  — 
Yea,  as  sweet  .as  to  shepherds  Chaldean 

When  watching  in  silence  their  sheep, 
From  on  high  fell  the  peace-giving  paean ; 

Or  soft  as  the  soothings  of  sleep  ; 

Or  as  harps  from  shut  Paradise  portals 

To  Dives  in  sulphurous  seas  — 
Oh,  the  voice  of  the  shining  immortals 

Was  sweeter,  far  sweeter  than  these  ! 
For  the  host  of  them  sang  —  sang  together 

At  dawn,  in  the  morning  of  years ; 
Drunk  with  bliss,  reeled  the  world  in  its  tether, 

And  thrilled  to  their  centres  the  spheres. 


THE   DETHRONED 


But  empty  their  thrones  in  the  zenith, 

But  shattered  their  sceptres  of  old  — 
Now  men  hear  not  their  voice,  and  it  seemeth 

Men's  gods  are  their  ingots  of  gold  — 
They  were  daughters  of  Darkness  and  Chaos, 

Were  stronger  than  Famine  and  Wars ; 
They  had  power  to  save  or  to  slay  us ; 

Their  names  were  the  names  of  the  stars. 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


From  Moschus 

PARAPHRASE 

WHEN  all  unruffled  sleeps  the  silent  sea, 
Outward  I  look,  and  love  the  land  no  more ; 
Fain  would  my  feet  forever  leave  the  shore 
To  drift  upon  that  calm  serenity. 

But  when  wild  ocean  thunders  angrily, 

And  torn  waves  break  into  white  foam,  and  roar, 
Then  I,  ill  pleased,  seeking  the  forest  floor, 
Love  the  wind's  harping  through  each  swaying 
tree. 

Ah,  he  whose  life  is  passed  upon  the  wave, 

Whose  wandering  bark  is  but  a  house  of  death, 
Toils  through  wild  dangers  to  a  watery  grave : 

Me,  rather,  let  the  forest  lull  to  dreams, 

Low  lying  on  some  bank,  the  boughs  beneath, 
In  calm  repose  beside  the  woodland  streams. 


24 


POLYPHEMUS   TO    ULYSSES 


Polyphemus  to  Ulysses 

TO    E.    R.    T. 

REVENGE  !  Revenge  !  Ye  have  shut  out  the  light  — 
Burned  out  my  single  eye  the  while  I  slept; 
But  for  each  tear  of  blood  that  I  have  wept, 
Ye  shall  give  forth  a  groan.  ...  I  will  incite 

The  avenging  Sea  against  you,  and  will  smite 

You  utterly.  .  .  .  Ai !  Ai !  Not  Jove  shall  intercept 
My  gathering  wrath,  ye  treacherous  wolves,  that 

crept 
In  secret  to  my  cave,  and  made  day  —  night ! 

Now  by  my  sire  Neptune's  oozy  locks 

And  forked  trident ;  by  the  boisterous  shell  — 
The  demi-dolphin  Triton's  roaring  horn  — 

I  swear  't  were  better  ye  had  ne'er  been  born  ; 

For  I  will  whelm  you  with  down-thundering  rocks 
Deeper  than  Trojan  plummet  ever  fell ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


With  Winged  Steps 

OH,  not  by  Arethusan  fountains  fair, 
Nor  silver  rivers  running  softly  fleet ; 
Ah,  not  on  mountains  trod  by  fabled  feet, 
Though  flushed  the  snowy  tops  in  sunset  air ; 

I  journey  not  by  them  —  not  there  —  not  there  ! 
On  classic  ground  for  me  —  though  that  were 

sweet  — 

No  need  to  roam  in  body,  —  me  who  greet 
The  deathless  white  immortals,  every-where : 

Lovely  the  vales  about  me,  and  the  dells, 
And  yet  I  pace  not  them,  as  on  I  tread,  — 
For  Fancy  ever  is  a  conjurer  ; 

Each  footstep  falls  in  azure  paths  o'erhead, 
And  I,  entranced,  listening  to  faint-heard  bells, 
Wander  afar  in  fields  that  never  were. 


26 


Oh,  not  by  Arethusan  fountains  fair 


CALLIOPE 


Calliope 

WHAT  shall  atone  for  studious  days 
Spent  at  the  Muse's  cruel  side  ? 
What  recompense  wilt  thou  provide 

For  labor  sore  in  making  lays  — 

One  of  thy  wreathed  bays, 
Calliope  ? 

Think  of  the  long  nights  spent  with  thee, 
When  other  men  were  glad  with  wine, 
With  woman's  love  they  deemed  divine, 

While  I  was  lone  as  islands  be 

Within  a  sailless  sea, 
Calliope ! 

Would  any  wreath  thou  couldst  bestow  — 
Albeit  all  wreaths  of  thine  are  vain  — 
Repay  for  half  this  life-long  pain? 

Thy  laurels  for  some  happier  brow ; 

I  heed  not  laurels  now, 
Calliope ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Still  wear  to  me  thine  ancient  frown ; 
Be  heartless,  as  thou  wast  of  old, 
And  yield  me  neither  rest  nor  gold ; 
I  scorn  thy  proffer  of  renown, 
For  Death,  too,  brings  a  crown, 
Calliope  ! 


28 


PASTORALS 


A  '  babbled  of  green  fields 

—  SHAKESPEARE 


IN  CLOVER   BLOOMS 


In  Clover  Blooms 

i 

ROUGH  is  the  road 

That  Fame  would  goad 
Us  ever  rudely  over ;  — 

How  free  from  care 

Yon  maiden  fair 
A-wading  through  the  clover ! 

II 

O  restless  man, 

Thy  little  span 
Why  fume  and  fret  it  over  ? 

Come  here  and  stroll, 

And  ease  thy  soul 
While  walking  through  the  clover. 

in 

That  golden  street 

Where  hallowed  feet 
Tread,  ever  softly,  over, 

Is  far  away ; 

But  here,  to-day, 
Enough  for  me,  the  clover! 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


The  Hills 

I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
THE  REV.  CHARLES  WEST  THOMSON 


THOUGH  all  the  fields  about  my  feet 
Are  beauteous  with  the  frozen  sleet, 

And  snow  the  valley  fills  ; 
Not  here  my  spirit  stoops  and  clings, 
But  there  she  soars  and  spreads  her  wings 

Above  the  hills  — 

Above  the  hills ! 


As  in  her  splendor  and  her  sheen 

The  Spring  comes  back  with  all  her  green, 

To  wade  through  daffodils ; 
Turning  away,  afar  I  gaze 
Across  the  faint  cerulean  haze, 

Upon  the  hills  — 

Upon  the  hills ! 


THE  HILLS 

III 

Though  in  the  laurel  underbrush 
I  hear  the  warble  of  the  thrush 

And  all  its  tender  trills  ; 
Yet  oh,  the  spiritual  bells 
Within  those  amethystine  dells 

Among  the  hills  — 

Among  the  hills ! 

IV 

The  Summer  spreads  upon  the  plain 
A  thousand  sheaves  of  golden  grain 

Anear  her  waiting  mills ; 
I  turn  unto  yon  barren  crags, 
They  call  —  they  wave  their  purple  flags- 

The  phantom  hills  — 

The  phantom  hills  ! 


When  sumptuous  Autumn  strews  the  sod 
With  scarlet  vine  and  golden-rod, 

And  every  murmur  stills  ; 
E'en  then  I  gaze  till  vision  dims, 
Upon  those  amaranthine  rims  — 

The  dreamy  hills  — 

The  dreamy  hills ! 


33 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 

VI 

And  when  November,  dull  and  sere, 
Her  lurid  sunset  spreads,  and  drear, 

And  all  the  landscape  chills  ; 
I  turn  from  this  and  gladly  part ; 
They  lay  their  hands  upon  my  heart  — 

The  evening  hills  — 

The  evening  hills ! 

VII 

And  even  after  I  am  old, 

In  summer,  or  in  winter's  cold  — 

Come  health,  or  age's  ills ; 
Still  let  me  raise  my  weary  eyes 
And  rest  them  on  my  Paradise  — 

The  fading  hills  — 

The  fading  hills ! 

VIII 

And  when  they  make  a  grave  for  me, 
Not  in  the  valley  may  it  be 

Beside  the  meadow  rills ; 
But  high  upon  some  cloudy  crest, 
Closer  to  heaven  I  would  rest, 

Upon  the  hills  — 

Upon  the  hills ! 


34 


But  high  upon  some  cloudy  crest 


TO   A   FARMER  — POOR  AND   OLD 


To  a  Farmer  —  Poor  and  Old 

His  form  is  bended  with  old  age  and  toil, 

A  life-long  labor  spent  upon  the  sod 
That  yields  him  scarcely  half  enough  to  eat. 

Bear  up,  brave  heart !  there  is  celestial  soil, 
And  by  still  waters  will  He  lead  your  feet,  — 
There  must  be  justice  in  the  halls  of  God ! 


35 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Cardinal-Bird 

TO  MARY  ANDERSON  —  MADAME  DE  NAVARRO 

THE  Cardinal  has  come  again ; 

He  all  the  brake  salutes ; 
His  music  floods  the  silent  glen,  — 

Oh,  hear  him,  how  he  flutes ! 


From  tree  to  tree  his  scarlet  glows ; 

Such  beauty  rare  he  brings, 
That  all  the  richness  of  the  rose 

Seems  lavished  on  his  wings ! 


IN   THE  FIELDS 


In  the  Fields 

JUNE   TWENTY-FIRST 

WHEN  daily  greener  grows  the  oats ; 
When  near  his  nest  the  red-wing  floats, 

And  sweetbrier  blossoms  in  the  lane ; 
When  freshening  wind  the  wheat-field 

shakes, 
And  in  its  billowy  rolling  makes 

An  ocean  of  the  grain : 

When  rye  begins  to  bend  its  head, 
Fearing  the  coming  reaper  dread 

That  ruthless  o'er  it  soon  shall  pass; 
When  meadow-larks,  that  on  their  breast 
Carry  the  dandelion's  crest, 

Pipe,  in  the  waving  grass : 

When  from  the  dimples  of  the  mere 
Come  distant  voices,  faintly  clear, 

Across  the  dells  of  lazuli ; 
When  airs  that  stir  the  poplar  spray 
Bring  odors  from  the  heaps  of  hay 

That  on  the  uplands  dry : 


37 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


When  wading  cows,  in  cool  mid-stream, 
Stand  by  the  hour  in  some  dull  dream 

Of  meadows  deep  with  clover-blooms ; 
When  all  the  knolls  are  gold  of  hue, 
When  all  the  silences  of  blue 

Are  heavy  with  perfumes : 

When,  as  the  shades  of  evening  fall, 
We  catch  the  faint  reechoing  call 

From  moving  hayloads  on  the  hill; 
When  gnats  in  swarms  a-dancing  go 
Within  the  golden  afterglow 

Where  whirls  the  whippoorwill : 

When  all  the  elder-blossoms  white, 
That  skirt  the  runnel,  burst  in  sight, 

Ah,  then  we  know  the  time  o'  year,  — 
And  then,  entranced,  we  raise  our  eyes 
In  gladness  to  the  glowing  skies,  — 

At  last  the  Summer 's  here  ! 


EPIGJZA 


Epigaea 

INSCRIBED   TO 
THE    MEMORY    OF    BAYARD   TAYLOR 

APRIL  is  coming,  and  I  surely  hear, 

On  all  the  mossy  slopes  and  woodland  dells, 

That  elfin  music,  delicately  clear, 
From  coral  clusters  of  Arbutus  bells. 


Sweet,  native  flower,  that  lov'st  the  lowly  ground, 
Close  to  my  secret  soul  in  truth  thou  art ; 

The  earth-star  thou  —  and  yet  I  have  not  found 
In  all  the  heavens  one  dearer  to  my  heart. 

Precious  thou  wast  in  days  that  young  love  gave, 
When  sight  of  thee  could  make  my  bosom  thrill ; 

Oh,  might  some  friend  but  plant  thee  on  my  grave, 
To  tell  the  woods,  thy  lover  loves  thee  still ! 


39 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


In  the  Peach  Orchard 

THE  workman  in  the  orchard  rows 
Picked  crimsoned  fruit  as  high  as  he  could  reach ; 
The  farmer  said,  "  My  favorites  are  those,  — 
They're  very  hard  to  beat,  — 

The  '  Mountain  Rose.'  "... 

The  little  daughter  of  the  workman  passed; 
We  saw  the  dew  upon  her  nut-brown  feet; 
He  said,  while  smiling  on  us  each 
With  pride  a  father  only  knows, 
"  That  is  my  favorite  peach  — 

My  Mountain  Rose !  " 


BIRDS  AND    THE  POET 


Birds  and  the  Poet 

THE  robin  that  runs  through  the  orchard  old, 

Robbing  the  grass  of  its  tangles  of  gray ; 
The  lark,  with  her  breast  of  daffodil  gold, 

That  drops,  like  a  star,  on  the  meadows  of  May; 
The  bluebird  that  floats  from  the  top  of  the  tree, 

With  the  flash  of  the  sky  on  his  beautiful  wings ; 
The  sparrow  that  drowns  the  drone  of  the  bee, 

Where  the  maple-buds  burst,  as  he  madly  sings ; 

The  turtle  that  coos  from  the  bellefleur  bare, 

Seeking  a  nook  where  the  branches  will  bloom ; 
And  the  wren  that  wakens  the  somnolent  air 

As  he  mounts  with  a  twig  to  his  resonant  room ; 
These  sang  to  the  poet —  sang  early  and  late  : 

"  Wake,  indolent  wooer,  the  Spring  is  for  love  ! 
Each  songster  is  making  a  nest  for  her  mate, 

But  where  is,  O  Singer,  thy  nest,  or  thy  dove  ?  " 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Then  the  poet  looked  up  through  the  halls  of  the  air, 

To  follow  the  wave  of  a  mystic  hand ; 
And  Love  went  by  at  his  feet  in  despair, 

While  he  worshipped  that  Vision,  so  white  and 

grand. 
The  dove  cooed  content  as  the  days  rolled  around ; 

The  breeze  through  the  blossoms  swept  soft  as  a 

sigh; 
The  lark  thrilled  with  joy  near  her  nest  on  the  ground, 

But  the  soul  of  the  poet  still  sobbed  for  the  sky. 


THE   LOCUST-TREES 

The  Locust-Trees 

A    SUMMER    SONG 

AH,  why  will  men  a-wandering  go 

Across  the  silver  seas, 
To  seek  th'  Illyrian  ilex, 

Or  th'  pine  of  Pyrenees ; 
When  here,  beneath  the  shadows, 

They  may  rest  and  take  their  ease, 
While  the  air  is  filled  with  perfume 

Of  the  lovely  Locust-trees  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  not  of  golden  boughs 

In  far  Hesperides,  — 
There  's  nothing  in  the  world  so  sweet 

As  drowsing  here  by  these,  — 
As  dreaming  'neath  the  branches 

When  the  blooms  are  full  of  bees, 
In  the  languorous  lotus-odor 

Of  the  lovely  Locust-trees ! 


43 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


Before  Dawn 

WHY  dost  thou  sing  so  madly  now,  O  Bird, 
Now,  ere  the  sunrise  brings  the  light  ?  .  .  . 

Ah,  these  are  shreds  of  music  thou  hast  heard 
In  dreams  throughout  the  night  I 


44 


Nor  mark  tJte  slant  sun  tip  the  tasselled  corf 


FAREWELL,    YE   FIELDS 

Farewell,  Ye  Fields 

TO  THE   MEMORY   OF   H.  W.  G. 

ALAS  !  to  drink  no  more  the  crystal  spring 
Where  oft  I  drank  beneath  the  meadow  rock 

Nor  see  the  blackbird,  with  his  scarlet  wing, 
Poise  to  entice  me,  on  the  bending  dock ; 

Nor  see  the  elder,  blossoming  still  in  June, 
Whiten  the  brook-side  with  its  drift  of  snow ; 

Nor  scan  the  hill-top  till  the  crescent  moon 
Hangs  her  gold  sickle  on  the  orchard  bough ; 

Nor  mark  the  slant  sun  tip  the  tasselled  corn 

When  dawn's  flushed  cheek  grows  paler  in  the  sky ; 

Nor  watch  the  wind  —  a  breath  of  summer  morn  — 
Roll  the  green  billows  o'er  the  seas  of  rye ; 

Nor  wade  through  odorous  swaths  the  mowers  throw, 
Nor  hear  the  music  as  they  whet  the  scythe ; 

Nor  sight  the  cradlers,  coming  all  arow, 

The  ripe  grain  sweeping  with  their  swayings  lithe ; 


45 


THE   SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


Ah,  not  again  beneath  the  wildwood  boughs, 
To  pluck  the  mountain  laurel's  roseate  stars ; 

Nor  o'er  the  clover  call  the  lowing  cows, 
And  watch  their  coming  at  the  upland  bars ; 

Nor  see  the  oxen,  loosened  from  their  load, 

Tread  through  the  twilight  o'er  the  dark'ning  wold  ; 

Nor,  in  the  evening,  down  the  dusty  road, 
Know  the  flock  coming  by  the  cloud  of  gold ; 

Oh !  ne'er  again  to  rest  beside  the  sheaves, 
To  hail  the  binders,  when  their  toil  is  done ; 

Nor  on  the  grain  load,  brushed  by  apple  leaves, 
Ride  down  the  long  lane  at  the  set  of  sun : 

These  peaceful  vales  no  more  shall  know  my  feet; 

Some  later  poet  here  shall  tune  his  lay ; 
And  still  the  winds  will  wave  the  fields  of  wheat, 

And  still  will  float  the  odor  from  the  hay ! 


MANDRAGORA 


Mandragora 

THERE  's  golden  haze  in  the  mellow  air, 
There  's  purple  and  crimson  everywhere, 

East  and  west ; 

Gathers  the  Autumn  into  her  fold, 
The  wandering  leaves  of  her  flocks  of  gold,  — 
So  rock  me,  Earth,  oh,  rock  me  to  rest ! 

Struggles  the  vine  through  half  o'  the  year, 
To  ripen  each  purple,  bloomy  sphere, 

East  and  west ; 

But  it  ceases  now,  for  its  toil  is  done, 
And  it  waits  the  warmth  of  the  vernal  sun, — 
So  rock  me,  Earth,  oh,  rock  me  to  rest ! 

The  idle  birds  in  the  dreamy  haze, 

Dream  and  dream  through  the  amber  days, 

East  and  west ; 

Must  Man,  the  monarch,  forever  toil, 
Nor  learn  of  the  vine,  the  bird,  and  the  soil  ? 
Then  rock  me,  Earth,  oh,  rock  me  to  rest ! 


47 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Winter's  Here  Indeed 

THE  summer's  skiffs  that  lined  the  shore 
Are  laid  upon  the  snowy  banks 

With  many  a  useless  oar. 
Where  silver  minnows  played  their  pranks 
By  arrow-headed  weeds  in  ranks 
Along  the  marge,  they  play  no  more,  — 

For  Winter  's  here  indeed  ! 

The  shifting  shadow  from  the  bough 
No  longer  delicately  weaves 

Upon  the  wading  cow 
The  dappled  semblance  of  the  leaves ; 
The  ferry-flat,  uppiled  with  sheaves 
From  island  harvests,  comes  not  now,  — 

For  Winter 's  here  indeed  ! 

And,  oh,  the  plumy  islands  dim, 
So  purple  and  so  azure  fair, 

That  almost  seemed  to  swim 
Within  the  amethystine  air  — 
Like  spirits  free  from  every  care  — 
From  river's  tranquil  rim  to  rim, 

Ere  Winter  came  indeed  ! 


48 


WINTER  'S  HERE  INDEED 


And  have  they,  then,  their  mooring  lost  ? 
Slipped  anchor  here,  and  sailed  away 

To  some  more  sunny  coast  ? 
To  some  far-off  Floridian  bay, 
Where  balmy  airs  around  them  play  ? 
Or  buried  are  they  by  the  frost, 

Since  Winter 's  here  indeed  ? 

The  wild  ducks  floating  by  in  flocks ; 
The  flying  geese  with  phantom  scream; 

The  heron  on  the  rocks ; 
The  halcyon,  darting  down  the  stream,  — 
All,  all,  are  vanished  as  a  dream,  — 
For  ice  the  darling  river  blocks, 

Since  Winter  's  here  indeed. 


O  April  with  thy  violet  eyes, 

Come  walking  down  the  willowy  shores, 

And  take  us  by  surprise  ! 
And  burst  to  leaf  the  sycamores, 
And  calm  the  river  where  it  roars, 
And  herd  thy  white  flocks  in  the  skies,  — 

For  Winter 's  here  indeed  ! 


49 


SONNETS 


Within  the  sonnefs  narrow  plot  of  ground 

—  WORDSWORTH 


FROM   THE   BATTLEMENTS 


From  the  Battlements 

A  THOUSAND  years,  I  think,  I  have  been  dead, 
And  yet  I  have  not  seen  her.     Can  it  be 
I  am  to  miss  her  through  eternity,  — 
I  who  on  earth  thrilled  at  her  lightest  tread  ? 

Among  the  millions  here  that  ever  thread 
These  streets  of  gold,  I  surely  soon  shall  see 
That  soul  that  died  in  her  virginity,  — 
Shall  find  at  last  my  love  long  vanished. 

I  feel  that  I  shall  know  her  through  disguise 
Of  spiritual  splendors.     I  will  stand 
Upon  the  bulwarks,  and  will  watch  and  wait. 

It  must  be,  that  within  this  pearly  gate 
Long  hath  she  entered  from  the  dreamless 

land.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  I  shall  know  her  by  her  love-lit  eyes. 


53 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Twilight  from  the  Lawn 

TO    SAMUEL    WADDINGTON,    ESQ. 

Low  in  the  west  the  golden  crescent's  rim 

Sinks  slowly  in  the  orange  afterglow ; 

Pale  puffs  of  steam  rise  into  rings,  and  go 

Circling  in  air.     Upon  the  river's  brim 
A  gleam  of  silver  lingers.     On  the  limb 

Hoots  the  lone  owl ;  and,  high  above,  the  crow 

Wings  to  the  wood,  most  wearily  and  slow ; 

The  hills  are  purpling,  —  dimmer  and  more  dim ; 
Against  the  glory  of  the  going  light 

Stand  the  cathedral  spires  of  the  pines; 

The  swallows,  swirling  in  concentric  lines, 
Swoop  down  the  ivied  chimney  for  the  night ; 

While  through  the  pane  —  a  star  that  doth  not 
roam  — 

Twinkles  the  lamp  —  the  Hesperus  of  home. 


54 


THE    TRIO 


The  Trio 

WITH  wings  upraised,  and  trumpet  pointed  high, 
She  poised  upon  the  summit  of  a  cloud ; 
"  My  name  is  Glory,"  blew  her  trump  aloud, 
"  Who  follow  in  my  steps  shall  never  die  !  " 

Then,  at  that  blare,  one  rose  and  fixed  his  eye 
Upon  her,  drawing  from  his  skull  the  shroud, 
And  spake  with  voice,  that,  tho'  it  whispered, 

cowed,  — 
"  Nay,  all  are  mine,  forever !  —  Death,  am  I ! " 

Thereat  a  baleful  Power  filled  the  air,  — 
Shook  all  the  shores  of  their  dominion, 
And  cried  from  out  the  blackness  to  them  there : 

"  I  am  the  Vortex  named  Oblivion,  — 
Aged  I  was,  ere  Chaos  had  begun; 
Glory  and  Death  !  behold  me.  .  .  .  and  despair ! " 


55 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


November 

FOR  Autumn's  splendors  now  I  search  in  vain ; 
The  crimson  thyrsus  of  the  sumac  bud, 
And  the  haw's  berries,  dashed  with  Summer's  blood, 
Are  dripping  in  the  dull  November  rain. 

No  tasselled  wigwams  of  the  corn  remain. 

All  yellow  are  the  streams  with  swollen  flood  ; 
And  on  the  hill-side  road,  the  golden  mud 
Falls  from  the  felloes  of  the  laboring  wain. 

Above  the  town,  upon  its  wooded  perch, 

With  unmarked  mounds,  the  little  graveyard  lies  — 
Watched  over  by  the  dove-like  Quaker  church  — 

Where  sombre  pines  are  pointing  to  the  skies ; 
The  only  mourner  now  —  the  pendent  birch  — 
Drops  tears,  to-day,  above  long-buried  eyes. 


SUMMER'S  SOUNDS 


Summer's  Sounds 

TO  H.  M.,  M.  D. 

ONE  listening,  in  the  clover  fields  can  hear 
The  mower  whet  his  scythe ;  and  far  away, 
O'er  lowlands  odorous  with  the  new-mown  hay, 
The  rattle  of  the  reaper  sharp  and  clear. 

Across  the  reedy  stretches  of  the  mere 

The  grazing  horses  send  their  greeting  neigh ; 
While,  'mid  the  silences  throughout  the  day, 
The  locust's  sharp  staccato  stabs  the  ear. 

Dim  shimmering  in  the  heat  the  violet  hills 
Call  to  us  vaguely  from  a  realm  of  dreams ; 
And  from  the  meadow's  smooth  meandering 
streams, 

Come  muffled  murmurs  of  the  distant  mills ; 
From  upland  wheat-fields,  as  his  barns  he  fills, 
We  hear  the  farmer,  calling  to  his  teams. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Procession 

FROM  caverns  of  the  countless  ages  vast, 
Along  the  twilight  of  the  monstrous  sky, 
Huge,  gloomy  figures,  dark  with  majesty, 
Hooded,  mysterious,  stalked  from  out  the  past. 

Slowly  they  filed,  and  as  I  looked,  aghast, 
Their  distant  voices  seemed  one  hollow  sigh 
Filled  with  Remembrance  and  with  Prophecy. 
They  peered  upon  me  as  a  thing  outcast, 

Frowning  reproof  athwart  th'  upbraiding  skies ; 
No  word  they  spake,  but  in  each  cloudy  scowl 
The  cold  aversion  of  averted  eyes 

Burned  me  as  fire,  and  did  my  soul  arraign ; 
While  from  the  smouldering  orbs  beneath  each 

cowl, 
I  felt  the  deathless  daggers  of  disdain. 


A    CATTLE   PICTURE  BY  CUYP 


A  Cattle  Picture  by  Cuyp 

WITH   MAN   PIPING 

LIST  !  .  .  .  't  is  the  cowherd's  mellow  tones  that  fill 
The  glowing  spaces  of  the  golden  air, 
While  the  rich  group  of  kine,  with  sun-smit  hair, 
Dream  their  dull  dream  of  wadings  by  the  mill. 

Tread  softly  through  the  grasses,  and  be  still  .  .  . 
Speak  not  above  a  whisper  —  have  a  care, 
Lest  he  should  cease  his  flutings  !  .  .  .  Notice  where 
The  shepherds,  listening,  pause  upon  the  hill ; 

The  very  children  gaze,  and  stop  their  play, 

Bound  to  the  place  by  music's  magic  bands.  .  .  . 
O  piper  of  the  picture,  keep  thy  hands 

Forever  on  thy  flute,  as  here  to-day; 

The  world  is  full  of  noise,  —  pipe  on,  we  pray ! 
Thy  note  the  spirit  hears,  and  understands. 


59 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


The  Victor 

DOWN  in  the  cloudy  towers  of  my  sleep 

A  dungeon  loomed,  wherein  I  heard  the  tones 
Of  those  long  ages  prisoned,  —  groans  on  groans ; 
And,  peering  further  in  the  noisome  deep, 

Wherein  no  rays  of  daylight  ever  creep, 
I  saw  a  skeleton  of  whitened  bones  — 
A  mighty  king  and  conqueror  of  thrones  — 
Chained  to  the  walls  within  this  donjon-keep : 

His  crown  still  blazed  upon  him,  golden-dull, 

Whence,  through   the   dark,  glared  jewels,  tiger- 
eyed. 
In  awe  I  stood,  and,  trembling,  held  my  breath; 

And  then  a  Voice  —  not  his  who  there  had  died  — 
Hissed  from  the  horror  of  that  hollow  skull,  — 
"  I  am  the  King  of  kings,  undying  Death  ! " 


60 


OPENING    OF   THE    URNS 


Opening  of  the  Urns 

ALONG  the  reaches  of  the  sunset  sea, 
A  troop  of  winged  Spirits,  mystic,  fair, 
Dim  as  the  clouds,  and  dreamy  as  the  air, 
Fluttered  from  out  the  twilight  down  to  me  : 

"  The  golden  vases  which  we  brought  to  thee, 
Time  after  time  —  before  thy  brow  with  care 
Was  seamed,  and,  too,  since  thou  hast  known  de 
spair  — 
Hast  thou  worked  out,  with  them,  thy  destiny? 

In  the  past  days  that  long  have  vanished, 

What  hast  thou  filled  them  with  ?  "  they  softly  said. 
And  I  replied  —  not  without  shame  and  fears  — 

"  Ah,  Fate  has  filled  them  for  me,  thro'  the  years ; 
Lo  !    Open   them,    and   see  !  "  —  and    bowed    my 

head.  .  .  . 

"  Alas !  "    they   sighed,    "  these    urns    are   full   of 
tears  I " 


61 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Storm-Clouds 

TO   THE 

MEMORY  OF  SAMUEL  S.  HALDEMAN,  LL.  D. 

Late  Professor  of  Comparative  Philology, 

University  of  Penna. 

I  STAND  beside  the  River  as  the  night 
Unrolls  her  sombre  curtain  o'er  the  day  ; 
The  pyres  within  the  west  have  paled  away 
And  only  left  their  embers,  dimly  bright, 

To  'lume  the  purple  hill-top's  sullen  height; 

Then,    from    behind    the    crags,    the  clouds   of 

gray  — 

A  troop  of  lions  held  too  long  at  bay  — 
Arise  from  out  their  antres  in  their  might, 

And  low  along  the  mountain  ridges  prowl, 
Tossing  their  shaggy  manes  with  lordly  roar ; 
While,  by  the  lash  of  lightnings  still  uncowed, 

They,  raging  and  rebellious,  long  and  loud, 
Send  many  an  angry  and  deep-throated  growl 
Rumbling  along  the  caverns  of  the  shore ! 


62 


APRIL    THE    TWENTY-THIRD 


April  the  Twenty-third 

(1564-1616) 

I  AM  not  proud  because  I  make  to  bloom 

Each  year  the  hawthorn  by  the  cottage  gate ; 

Nor  that  I  raise  the  rose's  heart  elate 

With  thoughts  of  climbing  to  my  lady's  room ; 

But  that,  one  golden  morn,  I  did  illume 

The  world  with  him,  —  a  light  to  dominate 
And  daze  all  time.  It  was  my  envied  fate 
To  lay  him  in  his  cradle  and  his  tomb. 

When  Nature  gave  him  she  became  lovelorn, 
Nor  would  she  let  him  longer  here  abide  ; 
And  if  in  memory  of  the  time,  men  mourn, 

Grieving,  — "  This    is    the    day    that    Shakespeare 

died," 

I,  April,  answer  from  the  Avon's  side, 
"This  is  the  day  my  dearest  child  was  born  /" 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Looking  at  the  West 

YE  Evening  Clouds,  on  which  I  sadly  gaze, 
Mine  eyelids  wet  with  untumultuous  tears, 
Because  your  beauty's  poignant  pathos  sears 
Itself  into  the  soul,  the  while  the  ways 

Are  rich  with  ruby  and  with  chrysoprase  — 
Ye  clouds  of  evening,  in  those  promised  years, 
In  the  great  oriel  of  some  grander  spheres, 
Shall  not  your  splendor  glad  our  heavenly  days  ? 

God's  smile  it  is  that  floods  the  sunset  sky  — 
He  cheers  us  with  this  parting,  lest  we  might 
Be  frighted  by  the  Dark's  immensity. 

How  could  we  bear  the  absence  of  the  light, 
Unless,  each  eve,  down-bending  from  on  high, 
He  from  those  Doors  of  Heaven  beamed,  "  Good 
night?" 


64 


And  worshipped  Autumn  on  her  misty  crest 


THE  SEASONS 


The  Seasons 

IN  youth,  I  thought  that  April,  azure-dressed, 
Was  queen  of  all  the  year,  her  blue  eyes  beaming 
With  earliest  love  —  with  passionate  glances  gleam 
ing; 
Later,  I  found  in  all  my  errant  quest 

Nothing  so  sweet  as  June ;  next  loved  I  best 

The  rich  late  Summer,  with  her  harvests  teeming, 
Throned  on  her  slopes  of  gold ;  then  fell  I  dream 
ing, 
And  worshipped  Autumn  on  her  misty  crest ; 

But  now  the  sweetest  days  seem  dull  December's, 
For  in  the  darkness  of  my  twilight  room, 
I  peer  into  the  hearth-fire  and  the  embers, 

And  see  fair  visions  rising  through  the  gloom, — 
Ah,  dearer  than  all  else  the  heart  remembers  !  — 
Faces  of  those  beloved  when  in  their  bloom. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


And  They  Shall  See  His  Face 

'Tis  said  that  after  life,  within  the  sky, 

If  we  through  mercy  then  are  granted  grace, 
We  there  may  see  the  Godhead  face  to  face ; 
And  this  is  promised  as  felicity.  .  .  . 

Ye  naming  Seraphs  round  the  throne  on  high, 
Bend  down  your  ever-burning  wings  apace 
And  shade  me  from  that  look  !    Fill  all  the  space, 
Angels,  between  me  and  the  Deity ! 

How  could  I  the  full  blaze  of  splendor  bear 
Unless  excess  of  glory  made  invisible 
The    Godhead?      No,  —  ah,    no!       Hide    me    in 
shade !  .  .  . 

Not  thine,  O  God,  but  faces  loved  full  well 
On  earth,  let  them  look  on  me  ever  there, 
Gentle  and  kind,  —  and  let  them  never  fade. 


66 


DAWN  IN  ARQUA 


Dawn  in  Arqua 

INSCRIBED   TO    HIS    MEMORY 
(Obiit  July  18, 1374) 

SICK  of  mere  Fame,  and  of  Rome's  Laureate  leaf 
His  Latin  Epic  brought  him,  up  he  went 
To  steep  Arqueto,  where  he  found  content 
Among  th'  Euganean  Hills  —  alas,  too  brief! 

His  was  an  irremediable  grief. 

That  heart  so  loved,  that  head  so  opulent 

Of  gold,  were  long  since  dust.  .  .  .  Silent  he  bent 

Above  those  Sonnets  in  that  Golden  Sheaf : 

Far  into  midnight,  lone  he  sat,  and  read 

The  Rime  once  again.  .  .  .  Oh,  bitterest  tears 
By  age,  for  love  all  unrequited,  shed !  .  .  . 

Then,  on  that  volume  slowly  sank  his  head ; 

And  in  the  mountain  cottage  —  bowed  with  years  — 
At  early  morn  they  found  him,  cold  and  dead. 


67 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Homeward  Bound 

As  some  stray  carrier-pigeon  onward  hies 
O'er  alien  spire,  and  dim  cathedral  dome, 
With  weakening  pinions,  that  reluctant  roam 
Athwart  the  high,  inhospitable  skies ; 

Famished  and  faint,  with  eager,  yearning  eyes, 
Whirled  by  the  winds  above  the  wild  sea's  foam, 
Till,  at  the  last,  outworn,  he  gains  his  home, 
Falls  at  his  mistress's  feet,  content,  and  dies : 

So  unto  thee,  sweet  Mother  of  all  Song, 

Weak  and  full  weary  with  world-wanderings, 
We  wing  the  trackless  deserts  of  our  sky  — 

Truant  to  thee,  O  Poesy,  too  long  — 

We  reach  thy  feet  at  last  with  bleeding  wings, 

'  And  fain  would  nestle  near  thy  heart  to  die  ! 


68 


.       BENEATH 
THE  RAYEN'S  WING 


They  are  black  vesper's  pageants 

—  SHAKESPEARE 


IN   THE   CYPRESS  SWAMP 


In  the  Cypress  Swamp 


ON  his  pools  that  are  black 

Is  the  green 

That  breeds  the  ague  ache ; 
As  a  crown,  on  his  head 

Unclean  — 
As  a  crown,  on  his  skull 

Obscene, 
Is  coiled  the  copper  snake. 


In  the  darks  of  the  depths 

Of  his  damps, 
From  immemorial  time, 
In  the  flare  of  his  dim 

Marsh  lamps, 
Sits  the  King  of  the  Realm 

Of  Swamps  — 
Dead,  on  his  Throne  of  Slime ! 


THE   SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


A  Winter  Twilight 

A  BLEAK,  keen  twilight,  cold  and  still ; 

White  fields  of  gloom  below  ; 
The  clover  path  around  the  hill 

Hearsed  in  its  pall  of  snow ; 
To  brier  tangles,  scant  and  bare, 

The  shivering  snow-birds  go  ; 
A  crescent's  thin  face,  full  of  care, 

Aches  in  her  silver  bow  ; 
The  lingering  light,  in  gray  despair, 

Sinks  melancholy  low; 
Afar,  two  homeless  foot-tracks  wind 

Into  a  night  of  woe, 
Where,  like  a  vague  dread  in  the  mind, 

Drifts  the  belated  crow. 


72 


YOLANDE 


Yolande 

TO    SIG.    ILARIO    SILVIO 

I 

THE  blithe  knights  name  me  "  Mad  Sir  Rue," 
For,  of  the  Table  Round, 

These  eyes  of  woe 

That  dazed  the  foe, 
Bend  lowest  on  the  ground. 


This  eagle  spirit  mounts  no  more  — 
This  armor  is  a-rust  — 
Not  as  of  yore 
This  soul  shall  soar  — 
Her  wings  are  in  the  dust. 

in 

And  am  I  crazed,  since  she,  my  bride, 
My  Yolande,  left  me  here? 
In  beauty's  pride 
She  paled  and  died, 
And  glorified  a  bier ! 


73 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


IV 

I  hear  the  sobs  that  rise  for  aye 

Above  her  jewelled  pall. 

By  night  —  by  day  — 

I  hear  the  clay 

Wail  on  her  coffin  wall. 


This  fiend  that  gnaws  me  —  fiend  thou  art, 
More  fell  than  ghoul  or  gnome  — 

He  tears  a  part 

From  out  my  heart 
And  lays  it  in  her  tomb. 


VI 

And  when  I  kneel,  as  is  most  meet, 
And  cross  myself  in  prayer, 
I  hear  it  beat  .  .  . 
And  beat  .  .  .  and  beat  . 
Beneath  her  yellow  hair. 


74 


YOLANDE 


VII 

At  night,  when  to  her  grave  I  pass, 

Wet  with  the  wailing  rain, 

Down  in  the  grass, 

These  lips,  alas ! 

Call  to  her  —  all  in  vain. 


VIII 

Yet  Yolande  knew  my  voice  of  old ; 

But  now,  how  can  she  hear, 
Through  fold  on  fold 
Of  glimmering  gold 

That  rests  about  her  ear  ? 


IX 

I  feel  that  long  gold  grow  and  grow. 
Ah  me,  what  hair  she  had  ! 

Dust !  .  .  .  Dust !  .  .  .  I  know 

Yet  were  that  so, 
How  could  I  then  be  glad  ? 


75 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Glad  am  I,  when,  at  evening  red, 
A  music  sweet  and  clear, 
Up  from  the  dead, 
Floats  overhead 
And  lingers  faintly  near,  — 


XI 

A  voice  as  soft  as  angels'  are  — 
A  music  sweet  and  strong, 

As  if  afar 

A  falling  star 
Had  perished  into  song. 


XII 

Hear  ye  no  voices  soft  and  low  ? 
Then  ye,  too,  deem  me  mad,  — 

I  only  know  .  .  . 

Long  .  .  .  long  .  .  .  ago 
That  Yolande  made  me  glad  ! 


76 


CALIBAN 


Caliban 


CALIBAN  sprawls  on  the  slippery  beach 

Beside  the  slimy  sea ; 
Freckled,  misshapen,  a  dog  in  speech, 
He  clutches  the  mussels  in  his  reach, 

Craunching  them  greedily. 
Of  Sycorax,  hag,  he  is  the  son ; 
He  was  littered  here  as  the  toads  that  run 

In  caves  by  the  sluttish  sea ; 
What  could  his  dam  do  but  pollute 
This  unkempt  whelp  —  this  monster  brute 

Weed  of  the  impish  sea? 


He  sprawls  on  his  belly  on  the  sands 

Along  the  swashing  sea ; 
The  ape,  with  his  long  and  hairy  hands, 

More  human  is  than  he  : 
He  swallows  the  crawling  things  a-raw, 

The  crab,  and  the  dead  sea-mew ; 
He  eats  the  jelly-fish  all  a-fresh  — 

That  mass  of  clotted  glue ; 


r~ 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


He  hankers  ever  for  human  flesh  ; 
He  gloats  as  he  sights  the  shipwrecked  crew, 

For  a  cannibal  is  he ; 
And  ever  ravenous  is  his  maw 

Beside  the  carrion  sea. 


in 

His  copper  skin  is  blotched  and  bright, 

And  of  a  sickly  hue ; 
Both  of  his  tusks  are  yellow-white, 

And  one  is  broke  in  two ; 
Twin  rows  of  teeth  run  round  his  jaw; 
His  bite  is  death,  for  his  gums  are  blue; 
The  film  on  his  eye  as  he  leers  at  you 

Is  livid  as  a  snake's. 
From  the  frog's  green  pool  he  laps  the  scum 

Within  the  marshy  brakes  — 

No  other  spring  has  he ; 
And  as  he  writhes  with  ague  numb, 
He  in  his  torture  howls  and  quakes 

Beside  the  Python  sea. 


CALIBAN 


IV 

In  the  pitch-dark  sky  the  lightnings  flash 

Above  the  roaring  sea ; 

The  thunders  growl,  and  the  black  waves  dash 
Over  the  rocks  with  a  roar  and  a  crash, 
While  he  cowers  low  on  the  lurid  sand 

Flat  by  the  sulphurous  sea. 
But  more  than  the  waves  he  fears  the  wand 

Of  Prospero,  the  King ;  — 

Sea-calf  and  a  slave, 
He  licks  the  foot  of  the  meanest  thing, 

This  slime  of  the  wave, 

This  beast  of  a  man,  — 
Caliban, 

Scum  of  the  filthy  sea ! 


79 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Bivouac 

THE  snows  are  swirled  across  the  skies ; 

Strong  blows  the  blizzard's  breath  ; 
The  baffled  crow  all  vainly  tries 
To  stem  the  blast,  nor  with  it  vies, 
But  drifts  to  death. 


Then  come  the  terrors  of  the  sleet, 

Of  storm,  and  wind,  and  dark ; 
The  blinding  snow  shall  round  them  beat, 
Shall  wrap  about  their  freezing  feet, 
And  leave  them  stark  ! 


80 


THE   DEAD   QUEEN'S  LOVER 


The  Dead  Queen's   Lover 

THE  night  was  dismal  and  dark 
As  the  moon  crept  out  from  a  cloud, 
Where  the  king  lay  awake  in  his  snow-white  bed 
As  Life  might  lie  in  a  shroud. 


He  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
To  hear  what  its  beating  said, 
And  it  throbbed  aloud,  through  the  ominous  gloom, 
"  Dead  !  .  .  .  Dead  !  .  .  .  Dead  !  " 

"  O  heart !  "  he  cried,  in  his  pain, 
"  Why  moan  like  a  mateless  dove  ?  " 
Yet  never  a  word  the  heart  replied  but, 
"  Love ! .  .  .  Love ! .  .  .  Love ! " 

"  Kind  Heaven  !  "  he  prayed  in  his  grief, 
"  Hast  thou  no  balm  for  woe  ?  " 
And  a  gnome  from  the  nadir  moaned  reply, 
"  No  !  .     .  No  !  .  ,  .  No  !  " 


81 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


"  O  Soul  of  my  sainted  Love, 
Shall  we  meet  on  the  shining  shore  ?  " 
But  a  sigh  sobbed  down  through  the  sky  above, 
"  No  more  !  .  .  .  No  more !  .  .  .  No  more ! 

"  Cold  dagger,  then,  thou  art  my  Bride,  — 
Come  lighten  the  burthen  of  breath  !  " 
And  the  jaws  of  Darkness  dripped  with  blood, 
As  he  leapt  to  the  throne  of  Death. 

And  ghastly  and  pale  is  the  night, 
As  the  moon  shudders  under  a  cloud ; 
For  is  it  a  king  on  his  snow-white  couch, 

Or  a  corpse,  in  a  crimsoned  shroud  ? 


82 


*>"        '.A 


And  gracious  girlhood  bloomed  and  blossomed  there 


THE    LAND    OF  NEVERMORE 


The  Land  of  Nevermore 

THERE  was  a  land  beyond  all  others  sweet, 

Upon  whose  golden  shore 
We  trod  triumphant  with  our  buoyant  feet ; 
Beauteous  the  balmy  days,  yet  oh,  how  fleet,  — 

The  Land  of  Nevermore  ! 

The  royalties  of  boyhood,  frank  and  fair, 
Spread  round  their  wealth  galore  ; 

And  gracious  girlhood  bloomed  and  blossomed 
there ; 

Within  that  land  no  sorrow  came,  nor  care,  — 
The  Land  of  Nevermore  ! 

One  day  Love  wandered  down  the  leafy  lane 

Where  he  ne'er  came  before ; 
And  guileless  honor  walked  without  a  stain, 
For  in  that  land  there  was  no  love  profane,  — 

The  Land  of  Nevermore  ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Oh,  for  the  faith  that  flamed  up  like  a  pyre,  — 

The  strength  of  soul  each  bore ! 
Ah,  for  the  glow,  the  passion,  and  the  fire! 
For  that  was  all  a  land  of  high  desire,  — 

The  Land  of  Nevermore  ! 


And  eyes  there  were  that  filled  with  Love's 
own  tears ; 

And  lips  that  proudly  swore 
To  love  past  death  a  thousand,  thousand  years  ! 
For  in  that  land  no  treachery  came,  nor  fears,  — 

The  Land  of  Nevermore  ! 

'T  is  gone  —  't  is  faded  —  vanished  from  us  quite ; 

Naught  can  its  joys  restore ; 
Black  wings  wave  round  us  of  the  coming  night ; 
We  walk  within  the  shadow  of  its  might,  — 

The  Land  of  Nevermore ! 


A  VENGED 


Avenged 

A  FRIGHTENED  moon,  without  one  star, 

Close  chased  by  demon  clouds  ; 
Gaunt  castle  ruins,  dim  and  far, 

Where  phantoms  flit  in  shrouds ; 
Fierce  winds  that  torture  frantic  trees, 

And  fright  the  guilty  grass ; 
The  meanings  of  sepulchral  seas ; 

Weird  spectres,  that  repass ; 
Black  umbrage,  threatening  unknown  doom  ; 

Old  blood-stains  on  the  moss ; 
Pallid  above  a  grave's  damp  gloom, 

The  white  and  ghostly  cross. 
No  hint  of  hidden  human  guilt, 

Save  this,  the  ghouls  impart : 
A  dagger  —  to  the  jewelled  hilt,  — 

Rusts  in  a  woman's  heart. 


ARROWS  OF  EROS 


Trifles,  light  as  air 

—  SHAKESPEARE 


OH,  NOT  ON   THE   FIELD 

Oh,  Not  on  the  Field 

THE  SOLDIER'S  SONG 

OH,  not  on  the  field  of  conquest  red, 

Where  the  crimsoned  victors  lay,  — 
Not  there  with  my  laurels  round  my  head, 
Not  there  in  my  glory  find  me  dead, 
Not  there  —  not  there,  I  pray ! 

Not  on  the  deck  where  we  conquer  and  bleed, 

Conquer,  and  sink  in  the  sea ; 
Find  me  not  there  —  not  there,  I  plead  — 
Wrapped  in  the  shroud  of  the  gray  sea-weed, 

Ah,  not  in  the  arms  of  the  sea! 

Not  in  the  sea,  in  its  restless  bed ; 

And  not  in  the  war's  alarms; 
But  here,  Beloved,  here,  instead, 
Let  the  whole  world  find  me,  when  I  am  dead, 

In  the  white  coil  of  thine  arms ! 


89 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Captive 

THE  KNIGHT'S  SONG 

THE  arrow  on  the  tower  vane 

Is  pointing  to  the  sea ; 
The  castle's  gargoyles  gurgle  rain 

All  week,  incessantly ; 
And  in  the  dove-cote,  doves  remain 

In  forced  captivity. 

O  Love !  let  the  sweet  storm  abide 
That  keeps  me  here  by  thee, 

The  gargoyles  gush  with  rain,  and  hide 
The  whole  world  and  the  sea  — 

For  in  our  dove-cote,  by  thy  side, 
Dear  is  captivity ! 


90 


HER   ROSES 

Her  Roses 

THE  LOVER'S  SONG 


ONE  day  when  I  was  standing  by 

My  gentle  little  Maid, 
I  took  the  roses  from  her  hand 

Within  the  wildwood  shade ; 
I  stooped  above  her,  where  she  sat 

Upon  the  rock  to  rest, 
And  let  the  petals  nutter  down 

The  dimples  of  her  breast. 


II 
O  rose-leaves  — O  my  rose-leaves  red, 

Quite  vanished  from  mine  eyes, 
She  '11  find  you  when  her  couch  she  seeks, 

There  in  your  paradise ; 
While  I,  a-wandering  through  the  night 

Alone  in  rain  and  wind, 
Shall  bless  myself  if  I  may  see 

Her  shadow  on  the  blind ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Lovers  in  the  Lane 

THE   POET'S    SONG 

As  arm  in  arm  they  passed  anear, 

The  maiden  and  her  lad, 
Their  beauty  pierced  me  as  a  spear, 

Their  joyance  made  me  sad. 

Then  felt  I  like  the  evening  cloud, 

That  in  the  sunset  skies 
Sees  round  it  float  a  beauteous  crowd, 

While  it  dissolves  and  dies. 

Ah,  beauty  gives  us  cruel  stings 
When  grown  in  others'  bowers ; 

And  youth  and  love  are  bitter  things 
When  they  're  no  longer  ours  ! 


92 


SIRENS 


Sirens 

A-POISE  upon  the  mullein's  tipmost  top, 

And  bending  down  its  rod  of  gold, 
The  thistle-finch  all  liquidly  lets  drop 
Melodies  manifold. 


At  sunset,  in  the  laurel  underbrush, 

From  roseate  blooms  beneath  the  trees, 
Upon  the  silence  pours  th'  impassioned  thrush 
Rapturous  ecstasies. 

But  when  Lucella,  sweeter  than  them  all, 

Warbles  within  the  starry  night, 
Her  words  are  silver  orbs  of  song,  that  fall 
Thrillingly  exquisite  ! 


93 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Moon-Ship 

O  MID-DAY  Moon,  that  in  the  blue  of  June 

Movest  so  fair  above  ; 
Art  thou  the  phantom  ship  that  all  too  soon 

Didst  take  away  my  love  ? 

If  thou  art  she,  pale  wanderer,  then  to  me, 

When  thou  dost  next  arise, 
Oh,  bring  her  back  again,  that  I  may  see 

The  love-light  of  her  eyes ! 


94 


BETRAYED 


Betrayed 

SINK  down  the  leaden  sky,  O  sun, 

With  all  thy  lurid  light,  — 

The  dismal  day  is  done ; 
Thy  rising  raised  me  from  the  deep. 

Thy  setting  brings  me  night, 
And  makes  me,  loveless,  weep,  — 

Sink  down,  O  lurid  sun ! 


95 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


In  Pail-Mall 
1872 

Alieni  temporis  flores 

KEMEMBER  you  the  day  we  were  to  meet, 

When  I,  in  London,  was  a  loiterer ; 

And  you,  all  muffled  in  a  wealth  of  fur, 

Came  tripping  with  your  Cinderella  feet, 
Through  the  cold  drizzle  that  was  almost  sleet, 

Bringing  a  sense  of  warmth  and  lavender  ? 

And  then,  'neath  one  umbrella,  how  we  were 

Drenched,  but  most  happy,  wading  down  the 

street  ? 
What  did  it  matter  all  the  mud  and  slush  ? 

What  did  it  matter  should  love  bring  us  pain  ? 

Your  voice  was  like  the  gurgle  of  a  thrush  — 
Your  voice,  that  I  shall  never  hear  again ! 

Your  lips,  your  eyes,  your  dimples  and  your 
blush  - 

Whose  are  they,  since  I  Ve  left  the  London  rain  ? 


THE   LUNCH  AL   FRESCO 


The  Lunch  al   Fresco 

Paris  1872 
Agnosco  veteris  vestigia  flammas 

WHAT  was  to  me  the  most  delicious  wine  ?  .  .  . 

Ah,  yes  !  't  was  that  I  sipped  at  Fontainebleau ; 

You  were  sixteen,  and  I  an  ardent  beau ; 

Children  in  love,  and  each  to  each,  divine ; 
I  was  your  world,  and  you,  I  said,  were  mine  : 

No  lovers  ever  loved  each  other  so  — 

We  stopped  and  swore  it  by  the  beech,  you  know. 

At  last  we  ope'd  our  bottle,  —  we  would  dine  — 
But  glasses  had  we  none  — what  should  we  do? 

We  took  it,  gurgling,  in  alternate  sips, 

Straight  from  the  flask,  —  a  laughing,  loving  pair; 
Then,  while  the  wine  was  wet  upon  your  lips, 

I  kissed  them,  and  .  .  .  how  long  it  seems  ago !  .  .  . 

The  wine  ?    Ah,  Love  !  the  wine  was  "  ordinaire  /  " 


97 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


In  Pall-Mail 
1872 

Alieni  temporis  flores 

HEMEMBER  you  the  day  we  were  to  meet, 

When  I,  in  London,  was  a  loiterer ; 

And  you,  all  muffled  in  a  wealth  of  fur, 

Came  tripping  with  your  Cinderella  feet, 
Through  the  cold  drizzle  that  was  almost  sleet, 

Bringing  a  sense  of  warmth  and  lavender  ? 

And  then,  'neath  one  umbrella,  how  we  were 

Drenched,  but  most  happy,  wading  down  the 

street  ? 
What  did  it  matter  all  the  mud  and  slush  ? 

What  did  it  matter  should  love  bring  us  pain  ? 

Your  voice  was  like  the  gurgle  of  a  thrush  — 
Your  voice,  that  I  shall  never  hear  again ! 

Your  lips,  your  eyes,  your  dimples  and  your 
blush  - 

Whose  are  they,  since  I  Ve  left  the  London  rain  ? 


THE   LUNCH  AL   FRESCO 


The  Lunch  al  Fresco 

Paris  1872 
Agnosco  veteris  vestigia  flammas 

WHAT  was  to  me  the  most  delicious  wine  ?  .  .  . 

Ah,  yes  !  't  was  that  I  sipped  at  Fontainebleau ; 

You  were  sixteen,  and  I  an  ardent  beau ; 

Children  in  love,  and  each  to  each,  divine ; 
I  was  your  world,  and  you,  I  said,  were  mine  : 

No  lovers  ever  loved  each  other  so  — 

We  stopped  and  swore  it  by  the  beech,  you  know. 

At  last  we  ope'd  our  bottle,  —  we  would  dine  — 
But  glasses  had  we  none  — what  should  we  do? 

We  took  it,  gurgling,  in  alternate  sips, 

Straight  from  the  flask,  —  a  laughing,  loving  pair; 
Then,  while  the  wine  was  wet  upon  your  lips, 

I  kissed  them,  and  .  .  .  how  long  it  seems  ago !  .  .  . 

The  wine  ?    Ah,  Love  !  the  wine  was  "  ordinaire  !  " 


97 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


My  Source  of  Light 

SONG 

I  'M  like  the  gray  cloud  just  above 

The  dawn  ere  day  's  begun ; 
And  thou  'rt  my  source  of  light,  my  Love, 

Thou  art  my  morning  sun. 

Pale  am  I  till  I  feel  thy  beam, 

Till  life  thy  light  bestows ; 
And  then  a  golden  cloud  I  seem, 

Bathed  in  ethereal  rose  ! 


TOO 


TAKE   BACK   YOUR-  WQ&DS 


Take  Back  Your  Words 

SONG 

TAKE  back  your  words  and  dry  your  tears, 

Life  is  too  short  for  hate  ; 
We  may  be  dead  a  thousand  years,  — 

Yet  Love  can  conquer  Fate. 
Too  soon,  alas !  each  golden  head 

Shall  lie  beneath  the  clay ;  — 
What  feelings  have  the  silent  dead  ?  .  .  . 

Oh,  love  the  while  you  may ! 

For  life  is  like  a  drop  of  rain, 

So  small  its  limits  be ; 
But  death  is  monstrous  as  the  main  — 

The  myriad-millioned  sea. 
Give  me  your  lips ;  dry  all  your  tears  ; 

So  we  at  last  may  say, 
If  we  are  dead  a  thousand  years 

At  least  we  've  loved  to-day ! 


SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


By  the  Frozen   River 

A   WINTER    SONG 


THE  river's  surface,  icy-mailed, 
Has  bound  the  boat  and  oar, 
And  Winter  reigns  where  Summer  failed 
O  Love,  remember  how  we  sailed 
Along  this  very  shore  ! 


The  frost  our  currents,  too,  assailed  ; 

No  Spring  can  them  restore  ; 
The  tears,  the  vows,  —  ah,  naught  availed 
O  Love,  remember  how  we  sailed 

Where  we  shall  sail  no  more ! 


102 


And  Winter  reigns  where  Summer  failed 


FAR   FROM   THE  DAWN 


Far  from  the  Dawn 

TO    M.    B.    G. 
AN    EVENING    SONG 

THE  evening  light  is  waning  low 

Above  the  wooded  hills  ; 
The  only  note  within  the  air 

The  lonely  whippoorwill's. 
The  prima  donna  of  the  dawn, 

The  golden-throated  lark, 
All  songless  in  the  dale,  alone, 

Awaits  the  coming  dark. 

O  Love,  at  morn,  refulgent  thou, 

At  eve,  how  dim,  in  sooth  ! 
Ah,  where  has  all  the  music  flown 

That  filled  the  fields  of  youth  ? 
Now  lower  sinks  the  evening  light, 

And  lonelier  loom  the  hills ; 
With  not  a  note  in  all  the  air,  — 

Not  e'en  the  whippoorwill's ! 


103 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 

From  Dawn  till  Dusk 

SONG 


As  down  the  clover  path  I  wade 
All  in  the  morning  sun, 

I  pass  the  stile  within  the  glade, 
And  then  I  think  of  one,  — 
Oh,  then  I  think  of  one ! 


At  noon,  when  Summer  days  are  bright, 

As,  musing  by  the  run, 
I  see  the  water-lilies  white, 

Oh,  then  I  think  of  one,  — 

Oh,  then  I  think  of  one ! 

in 

When  through  the  twilight  fields  I  go 

After  the  day  is  done, 
I  look  into  the  West,  and  oh ! 

'Tis  then  I  think  of  one, — 

'T  is  then  I  think  of  one  ! 


104 


WHERE   HAVE    THEY  GONE 


Where  Have  They  Gone 


WHERE  are  the  rims  of  the  beautiful  hills 
That  gladdened  our  eyes  as  we  walked  ? 

And  where  are  the  woods  and  the  woodland  rills 
Where  we  sat  by  the  hour  and  talked  ? 

Oh,  where  are  the  birds  that  sang  in  the  dell 

So  tenderly,  soft,  and  low, 
That  we  paused  in  the  love  we  had  to  tell 

And  listened,  —  how  long  ago ! 


105 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


In  Drear  November 

IF  to  me  the  night  is  so  steeped  in  gloom, 

With  sobbings  of  rain 

On  the  window-pane  — 
Who  sit  by  the  warmth  of  my  fire-lit  room 

Oh  !  what  must  it  be 

To  sweet  Marjorie, 
Adown  in  that  desolate  marsh-land  tomb  ! 


1 06 


GO    ON   WITH   THE   PLAY 

Go  on  with  the  Play 

SONG 


LET  the  play  go  on  as  is  meet, 
We  will  smile  and  endure  it  yet; 

But  the  roses  of  life  are  far  less  sweet 
Than  the  lilies  of  regret. 


Oh,  gone  is  the   love  and  the  trust ; 

She  sleeps  by  the  willow-tree ; 
And  only  a  handful  of  mouldering  dust 

Is  the  heart  that  broke  for  me. 


in 

Go  on  with  the  play  as  is  meet, 
We  will  smile  and  endure  it  yet ; 

But  the  roses  of  life  are  far  less  sweet 
Than  the  lilies  of  regret ! 


107 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Crescent 

JUST  over  the  gates  of  the  gold  and  glow 

Where  the  sunset  spirits  are, 
She  floats  in  the  nebulous  amber,  low, 
Luminous,  languorous,  moving  slow, 

Away  from  the  evening  star. 

A  golden  cloud  drifts  back  from  her  face 

Like  the  tress  of  her  yellow  hair ; 
And  the  stars  come  out  of  their  hiding-place 
To  bask  in  her  beauty  and  feel  her  grace,  — 
To  woo  her,  she  is  so  fair. 

Her  answers  are  soft  as  adagios, 

Yet  wayward  and  coy  is  she ; 
When  the  petals  close  of  the  western  rose, 
Evading  them  all,  she  silently  goes 

Over  the  edge  of  the  sea! 


1 08 


MINOR   CHORDS 


/  touch  the  silent  strings, 

The  broken  lute  complains  ; 
The  sweets  of  love  are  gone, 

The  bitterness  remains. 

—  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 


BLIGHT 


Blight 

HAPPY  are  they,  who,  loving  lovely  things, 
Each  new  day  love  them  more ;  , 

Whose  tranquil  spirits  bear  no  restive  wings,  — 
Who  dwell,  but  never  soar. 

There  falls  on  certain  souls  this  heavy  doom, 

And  wraps  the  morn  in  night : 
Joy's  grape,  once  touched,  will  bear  no  second  bloom, 

Nor  old  stars  yield  their  light. 


in 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Above  the  Trees 


THE  fields  are  fair  with  waving  wheat ; 
The  earth  is  blooming  round  my  feet ; 
But,  oh,  that  blue  I  love  to  greet, 
Above  the  trees ! 


ii 

How  much  of  all  that  seemed  most  bright, 
How  much  I've  loved  and  lost,  has  quite 
Evanished,  —  passed  far  out  of  sight,  — 
Above  the  trees ! 


in 

No  wonder,  if,  at  morning  red, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  day  is  dead, 
I  pause,  oft-times,  and  gaze  o'erhead, 
Above  the  trees ! 


112 


HOLLYHOCKS 


Hollyhocks 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears  —  WORDSWORTH 


THEY  rise  beyond  the  fountain  rocks, 
These  spinsters  robed  in  dainty  frocks, 

So  stately,  prim,  and  tall ; 
Their  hue  the  very  rainbow  mocks,  — 
These  quaint,  old-fashioned  hollyhocks 

Against  my  garden  wall. 


II 

Their  crimson  e'en  the  rose  defies ; 
Their  pink  is  like  the  morning  skies 

While  yet  the  sun  is  low ; 
And  if  we  turn  away  our  eyes 
They  hold  us  with  their  witcheries 

And  will  not  let  us  go. 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


III 

Too  coarse  to  cull  for  a  bouquet, 
And  lacking  fragrance,  yet  do  they 

Compel  us  still  to  see ; 
And  as  the  breezes  make  them  sway, 
What  ribboned  maidens  are  so  gay 

In  dance  upon  the  lea ! 


IV 

And  when  I  look  the  garden  through, 
And  mark,  against  the  mountain's  blue, 

The  noon  upon  them  bright, 
I  know  not  how  it  be  with  you, 
But  as  for  me  it  is  a  true 

And  exquisite  delight ! 


The  poet  whose  imaginings 
Soar  upward  on  ethereal  wings 

The  higher  realms  to  reach, 
Is  melted  by  the  simplest  things ; 
And  e'en  a  garden  flower  brings 

Dreams  beyond  song  or  speech. 

114 


HOLLYHOCKS 


VI 

The  hands  that  set  these  posies  here 
Are  turned  to  dust  this  many  a  year, 

So  soon  our  dearest  die  ! 
O  Memory,  in  this  nether  sphere, 
What  art  thou  but  a  constant  tear 

That  rises  to  Love's  eye ! 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Knight,  the   Maid,  and  the 
Minstrel 


SOFT,  my  steed,  across  the  sward;  neigh  not  when 

the  bugle  calls. 
Cease  a-clanging,  shield  and  sword,  we  are  near  her 

castle  walls. 
Hold  thy  breath,  O  twilight  breeze,  let  the  long  grass 

sink  to  rest 
There  beneath  ancestral  trees :  Lo !  she  standeth  in 

the  West,  — 


n 

Standeth  on  her  turret  high,  dark  against  the  setting 

sun  ; 
Pensive,  as  the  knights  go  by  gay  with  plume  and 

gonfalon. 
Circled  with  her  yellow  hair,  like  the  glory  round  a 

star, 
Often  in  the  evening  air  have  I  seen  her  from  afar,  — 


116 


THE   KNIGHT,    THE   MAID,    THE   MINSTREL 


III 

From  afar,  but  never  near,  mute  as  marble  — so  she 

seems  — 
Musing  on  some  cavalier,  down  the  green  lanes  of 

her  dreams. 
Ah  !  if  she  but  dreamed  of  me,  what  a  joy  were  then 

the  strife ! 
I  could  ride  down  Destiny  in  the  clashing  lists  of 

life ! 


IV 

Kings,  for  her,  would  give  a  realm  ;  I,  a  knight,  would 

brave  disgrace ; 
Court  a  lance-thrust  through  the  helm,  for  the  sake 

of  such  a  face. 
"  Maiden  with  the  lustrous  hair,  dimly  seen  at  dusk 

of  day, 
Underneath  those  lashes  fair,  are  there  eyes  of  blue 

or  gray  ? 


117 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


"  Blue  or  gray  or  shadowy  brown  ?    Lift  them,  prithee, 

let  them  speak ; 
And  the  roses    newly  blown  in  the  garden  of  thy 

cheek, 
Are  they  blushes  meant  for  me  ?     If  for  other  knight 

they  bloom, 
By  thy  beauty's  witchery,  tell  me,  Damsel,  tell  for 

whom!  . 


VI 

"  Silent  as  a  moorland  flower  !     Cruet  Maid,  I  might 

as  soon 
On  a  dial  learn  the  hour  by  the  light  of   Merlin's 

moon. 
Baffled  thus  each  eventide,  shall  I,  wondering  what 

thou  art, 
Ever  solve,  as  on  I  ride,  that  sweet  riddle  called  thy 

heart?" 


118 


THE   KNIGHT,    THE   MAID,    THE  MINSTREL 


"  Nay,  Sir  Knight,  be  not  so  bold  !  "  Here  her  Har 
per,  like  a  cloud, 

Rose  beside  her,  gray  and  old,  swept  his  harp,  and 
spake  aloud : 

"  Nay,  Sir  Knight,  be  thou  reproved.  Let  the  mystery 
alone. 

Lo,  the  maiden  shall  be  loved  better  that  she  be  not 
known. 


VIII 

"  Looming  o'er  Life's  desert  sands,  Cupid's  gilded 
domes  arise ; 

See,  when  touched  with  human  hands,  how  they  crum 
ble  from  the  skies ! 

Will  the  heart  of  youth  n'er  learn,  Love  that  beckons 
with  his  torch, 

Beckons  but  to  scathe  and  burn,  —  burn,  and  blind, 
and  sear,  and  scorch  ? 


119 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


IX 

"  Thou  shalt  keep  aloof  for  aye  ;  she,  above  all  search 

or  quest,  — 
Half  the  perfume  flies  away,  when  the  rose  is  once 

possessed. 
Thou,  O  maiden,  like  a  star,  still   a  mystic  vision 

seem; 
On  thy  turret  keep  afar ;  be  to  him  a  beauteous  dream. 


"  Hear  thy  Minstrel's  prophecy,  —  red  the  words  rise 

from  his  heart,  — 
Lovers  who  would  love  for  aye,  must  forever  love 

apart." 

So  they  parted,  as  was  doomed ;  but,  if  legends  run 

aright, 
In  each  heart  a  lily  bloomed  —  bloomed  eternal,  day 

and  night. 


120 


THE   SINGER 


The  Singer 

SORROW  had  marred  her  face,  —  how  much  ! 

And  dimmed  her  wondrous  eyes ; 
But,  oh,  her  Voice  !  —  her  voice  it  could  not  touch,- 
That  was  of  Paradise. 


121 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Longfellow 

Nihil  tetigit  quod  non  ornavit 

NOT  in  the  dawning  of  his  golden  prime 
His  finest  songs  across  the  world  he  flung ; 

But  who  could  match  the  pathos  of  his  rhyme, 
When  that  the  eve  of  life  around  him  hung  ? 

As  darkness  neared,  rarer  each  touching  lay ; 

Then,  through  his  lyre,  we  heard  his  rapt  soul  pour 
As  those  charmed  harps  that  but  at  night-time  play 

/Eolian  strains  on  Pascagoula's  shore. 


122 


THE    WATCHER 


The  Watcher 

NOT  a  break  in  the  gray  East's  dungeon  bars, 
Where  the  dawn  lies  prisoned  behind  the  clouds; 

And  the  dome  is  dark  with  the  graves  of  stars, 
As  muffled  they  lie  in  their  sable  shrouds. 

Alone  I  wait  on  the  black  cliff's  brow, 

With  my  pale  hands  stretched  to  the  unseen  sea  ; 

While  the  breakers  moan  in  the  mist  below, 
And  beat,  like  the  heart  that  beats  in  me. 

But  when  to  the  soul  did  the  sea  sing  hope  ? 

The  sea-god  is  dumb.     So  I  stand  and  wait 
For  the  prophet  lips  of  the  Dawn  to  ope, 

And  banish,  or  brighten,  the  face  of  Fate. 

Far  better  to  drowse  on  the  dim  sweet  breast 
Of  the  starless  Night,  with  her  slumberous  eyes, 

Than  to  watch  forever,  in  aching  quest, 

For  a  glimmer  of  day  in  the  dawnless  skies. 

O  passionate  arms,  are  ye  faint  on  the  height? 

O  fervent  lips,  will  ye  cease  to  pray  ? 
Lo,  the  morn  is  past,  yet  it  brought  no  Light ; 

And  the  noon  comes  on,  but  it  brings  no  Day. 


123 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


To  a  Baby 


BABY,  Fay,  or  wingless  Sprite, 
Wanderer  from  supernal  light, 

Fragment  of  the  Infinite, 
Shake  the  star-dust  from  your  curls, 
Tell  us  —  older  boys  and  girls  — 

Of  the  land  that  love  empearls. 

We  forget  —  for  we  grow  old 
All  the  shining  ways  of  gold, 

All  the  anthems  upward  rolled ; 
We  forget  the  silver  note 
Of  the  cherubs  as  they  float, 

Nimbus'd  in  the  air  remote. 


Tell  us  of  that  City  bright, 

With  its  precious  stones  bedight, — 

Jasper,  jacinth,  chrysolite. 
We  forget  how  looked  the  skies ; 
Tell  us  of  the  land  that  lies 

O'er  the  walls  of  Paradise! 


124 


A    WINTER   DIRGE 


A  Winter  Dirge 

M.    B.    M. 

How  white  and  still  o'er  tomb  and  post 
The  moon-made  shadows  go, — 

The  trailing  garments  of  a  ghost, 
Across  the  church-yard  snow. 

And  does  she  feel  the  season's  change, — 
The  maid  who  sleeps  below  ? 

And  seems  it  sweet,  or  seems  it  strange, 
The  roses  —  then  the  snow  ? 


Ah,  let  it  hail  and  let  it  roar, 
Or  let  the  roses  blow ; 

Alas !  she  recks  not  any  more, 
Asleep  beneath  the  snow ! 


125 
\ 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Roland  to  the  Nun 


THE  pain  I  suffer  for  her  is  more  sweet 

Than  all  the  joys  that  love  e'er  gave  before; 

Better  to  touch  the  blue  veins  of  her  feet, 
Than  loveliest  lips  that  beauty  ever  bore. 


n 

Let  others  fold  a  fair  form  full  of  bliss ; 

Let  others  thrill  the  senses,  one  and  all ; 
But,  oh,  my  white  Dove,  I  would  kneel  and  kiss 

Even  your  shadow  on  the  convent  wall ! 


126 


Is  there  no  bairn  of  sweet  repose 


BEYOND    THE  HILLS 


Beyond  the   Hills 

THE  morning  comes  ;  the  evening  goes  ; 
Sick  of  life's  petty  joys  and  woes, 
I  crave  the  rest  that  peace  bestows. 
Is  there  no  balm  of  sweet  repose 
Beyond  the  hills  ? 

O  watcher  on  the  peaks  of  white, 
Seest  thou  no  rays  of  coming  light,  — 
No  rifts  of  day  within  the  night  ? 
Will  the  Dawn  bring  me  my  delight, 
Beyond  the  hills  ? 


127 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Beneath  the  Palm 

NEAR  Appalachicola's  reef, 
Upon  the  floating  lily  leaf, 

The  adder  sleeps  at  noon  ; 
And  from  the  tangles  of  the  brake, 
The  larum  of  the  rattlesnake 

Startles  the  still  lagoon. 

On  Okeechobee's  waters  black, 
At  eve  the  alligator's  back 

Floats  huge  and  dark  and  bare ; 
Meanwhile,  the  sweet  magnolia  bloom 
Drifts  o'er  the  venom  and  the  doom 

That  lie  in  ambush  there. 

Ah,  region  of  the  tropic  bowers, 

The  quest  of  youth,  —  the  land  of  flowers, 

By  Pensacola's  bay ; 
A  land  such  as  no  other  seems, 
Thou  livest  only  in  our  dreams,  — 

De  Leon's  Florida ! 


128 


THE  ROAD 


The  Road 

OH,  the  sweet  o'  the  day  is  its  mystery, 
And  I  trudge  the  old  road  still ; 

I  shall  never  be  happy  until  I  can  see 
Over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 


Oh,  Life  with  its  mysteries  dark  and  high, 
Who  shall  explore  its  steeps  ? 

I  crave  to  fathom  the  fathomless  sky, 
And  of  Death,  the  bottomless  deeps. 

Ah,  the  sweet  o'  the  day  is  its  mystery, 
But  I  trudge  the  old  road  still ; 

And  shall  never  be  happy  until  I  can  see 
Over  the  brow  of  the  hill ! 


129 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


They  Bring  Their  Flowers 


THEY  bring  their  flowers, 
They  weep  a  little  o'er  us 

In  our  narrow  bed  ; 
How  soon  their  lips  shall  find 
Some  kiss  more  dear  than  ours, 

When  we  are  dead ! 


ii 

'T  is  no  surprise 

That  sweeter  smiles  will  come, 

When  our  worn  smile  is  sped ; 
That  those  who  loved  us  once 
Shall  love  more  lustrous  eyes, 

When  we  are  dead. 


130 


THEY  BRING    THEIR   FLOWERS 


III 

Be  not  deceived 

E'en  by  love's  protestations 

Round  the  dying  bed ; 
That  some  would  miss  us  living 
Well  may  be  believed,  — 

How  few,  when  dead ! 


IV 

If  strong  and  fair, 

We  may  be  loved,  perhaps, 

While  beauty's  rose  is  red ; 
But  oh,  how  soon  forgot, — 
How  little  do  they  care, 

When  we  are  dead ! 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


My  Father  at  Eighty 

I  SAW  him  sitting  in  his  sunset  chair ; 

His  eyes  were  gazing  fondly  into  space ; 
I  did  not  speak ;  I  knew  that,  hovering  there, 

He  saw  again  my  mother's  long-lost  face. 


132 


A   POET'S  BOOKCASE 


A  Poet's  Bookcase 

OH,  gently,  —  gently  near  the  bookcase  tread ; 

Speak  only  in  hushed  whispers,  soft  and  low ; 
These  are  the  urns  that  hold  the  deathless  dead, 

The  souls  of  those  passed  onward  long  ago. 

At  this  still  shrine  your  heart-felt  homage  give ; 

With  reverence  touch  each  tome  upon  the  shelves ; 
These  are  the  Dreams  of  Genius,  —  hence  they  live,  — 

The  fine  quintessence  of  their  finer  selves. 


133 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


The  Anniversary 

THE  silent  snow  is  on  the  land, 
The  moon  is  shining  bright; 

I  take  the  roses  in  my  hand, 
And  tread  the  path  of  white. 


Ah,  life  belongs  alone  to  youth, 

And  we  of  riper  years, 
But  walk  a  wistful  way  of  ruth 

Along  a  stream  of  tears. 

What  use  for  roses  have  I  now, 
Who  miss  what  love  once  gave  ? 

Only  to  stoop,  and  in  the  snow, 
To  lay  them  on  her  grave ! 


134 


MY  LADY  FAIR 


My  Lady  Fair 

OX-EYED  daisy,  in  the  grass, 

Looking  in  that  queenly  way, 
Come,  I  cannot  by  you  pass, 

I  must  cull  you  here  to-day. 
'T  is  because  your  glowing  crown 

Calls  to  mind,  as  I  behold, 
Her  great  eyes  of  velvet  brown, 

And  her  hair  of  wondrous  gold. 

Laurel  blooms  that  here  recline, 

Growing  on  the  wooded  crest, 
Verily  you  must  be  mine, 

I  will  wear  you  on  my  breast. 
Know  you  why  each  coral  star 

From  your  branches  here  I  clip  ? 
'T  is  because  to  me  you  are 

Rosy  as  my  Lady's  lip. 


135 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Elder  blossoms  white  as  snow, 

Flowering  by  the  meadow  fence, 
Longer  here  you  may  not  grow, 

Surely  I  must  take  you  hence. 
Why  should  I  with  half  a  sigh 

Break  you  off  in  spite  of  ruth  ? 
'T  is  because  you  seem  to  me 

Pure  as  is  my  Lady's  truth. 

Everything  of  loveliness,  — 

Bird  and  blossom,  perfumed  air,  - 
Makes  me  think  of  her,  and  bless 

One  so  gentle  and  so  fair. 
Who  is  she  such  solace  gives  ? 

Who  so  beauteous  and  so  kind  ? 
Ah  !  my  Lady  only  lives 

In  the  palace  of  my  mind. 


136 


O    WHAT  IS  SONG 


O  What  Is  Song 

O  WHAT  is  Song, 
And  what  is  Art, 
And  what  is  Fame 

To  me,  — 
Who  sit  apart, 
With  single  heart, 

In  loveless  ecstasy  ? 

Ah,  what  are  Hearts 
When  once  possessed ; 
Ah,  what  are  Loves 

To  me,  — 

In  whose  dark  breast 
A  sea's  unrest 

Pulses  eternally  ? 

O  what  is  Life, 

And  what  are  Dreams, 

And  what  is  Death 

To  me,  — 

What,  but  dull  beams,  - 
But  hints  and  gleams 

Of  grander  Entity ! 

137 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


The  Bride  of  the  Sea 

IN    MEMORY   OF   JAMES   JACKSON    JARVES  —  FLORENCE 

THERE  are  cities  high  over  Orion 

That  jasper  and  sardonyx  be; 
Whose  streets  it  were  joy  but  to  lie  on, 

Whose  walls  it  were  bliss  but  to  see ; 
Many  sumptuous  cities  fair  Dian 

Beholds  over  mountain  and  lea, 
But  the  Bride,  'neath  the  wings  of  her  Lion,  — 

Where  is  one  such  as  she  ? 


She  is  crowned  with  her  triumphs  and  towers, 

And  blue  run  the  veins  in  her  arms ; 
Like  the  lotus,  afloat  with  her  flowers, 

Her  whiteness  hath  wonderous  charms; 
Delicious  her  lips  are,  with  powers 

Circean,  yet  void  of  alarms  ; 
And  the  mortal  that  dreams  of  her  bowers 

Leaves  his  soul  in  her  arms. 


138 


THE   BRIDE    OF   THE   SEA 


Yet  should  time,  ever  eager,  though  olden, 

Her  fairness  despoil  and  depose  ; 
Should  her  domes,  which  at  evening  are 
golden, 

Dissolve  as  her  Apennine  snows ; 
Should  the  sceptre,  which  long  she  hath 
holden, 

Depart,  and  the  crown  from  her  brows, 
And  the  robes  of  her  splendor  be  rolled  in 

The  gray  dust  of  her  woes ; 

Should  the  glory  grow  dim  of  her  Titians, 

Her  gondolas  drift  'neath  the  moon ; 
Should  her  marbles,  mosaics,  Venetians, 

Evanish  and  pass  as  a  swoon ; 
Should  her  forehead,  the  fairest  of  visions, 

Sink  under  the  silent  lagoon, 
And  the  sea,  tombing  all  her  traditions, 

Leave  a  waste  for  the  loon ; 


139 


THE  SLOPES  OF  HELICON 


Should  she  melt  as  a  mist  evanescent, 

Or  fade  as  a  myth  from  a  scroll,  — 
Yet  her  wraith  would  arise  juvenescent, 

Aglow  with  a  great  aureole  ; 
Still  her  glamour,  eternally  crescent, 

Supreme  o'er  the  spirit  would  roll ; 
And  her  Name,  as  a  star  iridescent, 

Light  the  sky  of  the  soul. 

Though  in  regions  celestial  there  are  lands  - 

Bright  lands  it  were  bliss  but  to  see, 
Whose  towers,  built  high  over  star  lands, 

Of  beryl  and  sardonyx  be ; 
Though  cities  in  fabulous  far  lands 

Loom  fair  over  mountain  and  lea,  — 
Yet  on  earth,  in  her  gloom,  or  her  garlands, 

Who  so  comely  as  she  ! 


140 


THE    WING   OF  DEATH 


The  Wing  of  Death 

WE  stood  beside  the  church-yard  stone, 

My  pale  sweetheart  and  I ; 
We  mused  a  moment  there  alone ; 

A  tear  was  in  her  eye. 
I  took  her  by  the  trembling  hand, 

And  kissed  away  the  tear ; 
I  wondered  which  of  us  would  stand 

Above  the  other's  bier. 


She  read  my  thought,  and  quick  she  said, 

"  I  'm  but  a  woman  —  I, 
But  on  the  day  I  saw  you  dead, 

That  day  I,  too,  should  die." 
I  laughed  it  off,  to  hide  the  blow  — 

It  is  a  way  with  men  — 
Alas !  how  little  did  we  know 

That  she  was  dying  then ! 


141 


ODE    TO    THE   MEMORY  OF  KEATS 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Keats 

1880 


THY  voice  is  as  the  sound  of  far-off  seas, 
And  sweeter  than  the  hum  of  Enna's  bees, 
That  fed  on  flowers  round  the  milk-white  knees 
Of  hapless  Proserpina ;  or  than  strains 
Of  harps  aeolian,  made  by  murmurous  leaves 
When  elfin  airs  are  going  through  green  lanes 

In  some  enchanted  vale ; 
Or  than  a  song  at  sunset,  'mid  the  sheaves, 
When  troops  of  reapers,  singing,  ope  the  bars, 
And  the  young  crescent  with  her  sister  stars, 

Stoops  low  to  listen,  golden  pale ;  — 

Sweeter  than  all  these  ! 
And  softer  than  the  sound  of  waters  falling 
Through  dells  of  El  Dorado  ;  or  the  calling 
Of  rose-limbed  Nymphs,  at  eve,  for  their  god  lover 
Among  the  trees  Idalian,  arching  over 
Dim  avenues  whose  twilights  never  change  ; 
Ah !  sweeter  than  all  things  we  may  discover, 
And  strange !  — 


143 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Strange  as  the  song  of  some  unrestful  star 

That  falls  above  a  city,  but  so  far 

And  high,  none  hear,  save  those  who  watch  the 

skies 

A-hunger  for  the  eternal  harmonies 
That  drop  from  lips  of  haloed  poets  dead,  — 

So  sounds  thy  voice  o'erhead  ; 
And,  listening,  lesser  Bards  hear  the  rapt  tone, 
Harp  sweeter  songs,  and  think  the  strains  their 

own, 

So  Orphean-sweet  thine  are ! 


Unread  may  rest  thy  lays 

For  many  days  — 
For  many  weary  years ; 
And  yet  their  echo  still  is  in  our  ears, 

And  sounds  within  our  soul, 
Like  the  dim-heard,  far-off,  faint  thunder-roll 
Along  the  evening  hills. 

in 

Thou  wast  the  Muse's  favored  one, 
Whose  syllables  were  as  a  benison 
To  heal  our  mortal  ills. 


144 


ODE    TO    THE   MEMORY  OF  KEATS 


Thou  who  didst  honey  from  Hymettus  rob, 
Thou,  in  the  mind's  celestial  Parthenon, 
Hast  filled  thy  niche,  where  all  about  thy  lips 

The  stone  glows  with  white  eloquence, 

Making  the  silence  throb. 
Yet,  O  sweet  poet,  —  thou  who  liest  hence 
Under  that  slab  pathetically  small, 
Like  one  white  lily  thrown  outside  the  wall, 
Upon  the  Roman  grass,  —  this  was  thy  doom : 
Within  a  callous  people's  laggard  tomb, 

Which  is  henceforth,  to  us,  a  shrine, 
To  lie  forgotten  long; 
Silent  those  lips  of  thine, 

Nurtured  upon  Olympian  wine, 
Wet  at  the  Heliconian  spring  divine, 
And  made  immortal  by  immortal  song. 

IV 

Aerial  architect,  whose  realm  was  space, 

Who  in  the  mind's  blue  zenith  —  thine  abode  — 

Reared  the  transcendent  spire  of  the  Ode ; 

Who  built  dream-raftered  temples,  high  and  strong, 

That  break  life's  flat  horizon  into  joy,  — 

The  Brunelleschi  of  the  Dome  of  Song,  — 

A  full-voiced  poet  thou,  while  yet  a  boy. 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Thy  lips  true  sculptors  were,  and,  gay  or  grave, 
The  plastic  language  took  the  print  they  gave ; 
Apollo  touched  them,  and  beyond  recall, 
Thy  speech  thereafter  ran  most  musical 
Through  all  its  lucent  labyrinthine  ways,  — 

Through  all  thy  golden  lays. 
But  Atropos,  too  soon,  with  sudden  shears 
Above  thee  leaned  to  cut  thy  thread  of  years, 
And  as  she  cut  it,  sighed  ; 
Thereat  thy  name 

Died 
Into  deathless  fame ! 


O  weak,  —  yet  strong ! 

Pale  Star  of  later  Song, 
Across  the  Atlantic,  streams 
The  glorious  splendor  of  thy  beams, 
Reaching  and  dazzling  many  an  eye  and  ear. 
And  still  thou  liv'st.     We  feel  thy  joys  and  ills ; 
Thy  spirit  walketh  on  our  sunset  hills ; 
Thy  lays  yet  breathe,  to  those  who  still  can  hear, 
Memnonian  music  from  auroral  air ; 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  peaks,  serene  and  clear ; 
From  Indian  dells,  or  down  Ionian  dales, 


146 


ODE    TO    THE   MEMORY  OF  KEATS 


We  hear  thy  harp  still  sighing  Grecian  tales 

Of  deities  melodiously  forlorn,  — 
We  hear,  —  and  bless  the  day  that  thou  wast  born. 
O  Poet  of  the  night,  and  of  the  morn, 

Bard  of  immortal  woes, 
Thou  mad'st  our  world  more  beauteous  and  more 

sweet, 
And  so  we  cast  our  pearls  about  thy  feet 

In  reverence,  with  a  sigh ; 
We  who  love  beauty  cannot  let  thee  die ; 
We  know  thy  heart  was  pierced  through  with  the 
thorn, 

Though  hidden  by  the  rose  ; 
•We  know  thy  breast  was  bleeding  all  life  long, 
O  thou,  the  Nightingale  of  English  Song ! 


147 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 
\ 

The  Idealists 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   THOS.    BUCHANAN    READ 


As  a  cloud  that  dissolves  in  the  sky 

At  the  close  of  the  day, 
Even  so  out  of  life,  silently, 

Man  passes  away. 
As  a  leaf  from  the  branch  of  a  tree 

Falls  and  melts  in  the  mould, 
So  for  man  —  the  godlike  and  free  — 

This  fate  is  foretold. 


As  the  tussocks  on  prairie  or  plain 

Are  swallowed  by  fire, 
So  of  man,  but  his  ashes  remain,  — 

The  earth  is  his  pyre. 
All  his  work,  all  his  love,  all  his  fame,  — 

Verse,  picture,  or  bust,  — 
'T  is  a  dream,  't  is  a  wraith,  't  is  a  name, 

It  is  dust,  it  is  dust! 


148 


THE   IDEALISTS 


III 

Yet  no  less  will  we  strive  to  the  end, 

E'en  if  life  has  deceived ; 
Let  death  prove  a  foe  or  a  friend, 

We  strove,  we  achieved. 
With  humility  haughty  as  pride, 

Looking  up  through  our  bars, 
As  we  lived  and  aspired,  so  we  died, 

Athirst  for  the  stars ! 


149 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 

Mariners 

A    HYMN 

DARKNESS  upon  the  vast ; 

Storm  raging  wild  around ; 
Torn  sail,  and  shattered  mast,  — 

Far  thunder-sound ! 

No  harbor-lamps  to-night ; 

Waves  dashing  o'er  the  deck ; 
Fierce  breakers  surging  white, 

Warning  of  wreck  ! 

Louder  the  billows  roar ; 

Wilder  the  waters  leap  ; 
Lost — lost  in  sight  of  shore  — 

Lost  in  the  deep  ! 

Lo,  on  the  furious  sands, 

Death  waits  upon  the  coast ; 

Help,  Lord  !  reach  out  Thy  hands 
Ere  we  are  lost ! 


MARINERS 


God  of  the  storm  and  sea, 
Sink  we,  unless  Thou  save, — 

Fill  us  with  faith  in  Thee 
To  walk  the  wave ! 


See  where,  to  aid  us,  He 

Comes  through  the  raging  blast. 
O  Star  of  Galilee  !- 

Saved  !  .     .  Saved  at  last ! 


THE  SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


Across  the  Years 


YE  Poets  of  all  the  ages  and  climes, 

I  know  the  bent  of  your  song ; 
In  Summer,  right  gay  were  your  golden  rhymes, 

And  dark,  when  the  Winter  was  long. 

When  Spring  was  queen  of  the  redolent  year, 
In  verdure  your  verses  were  clad; 

When  Fall,  like  a  lorn  dove,  fluttered  drear, 
The  notes  that  you  crooned  were  sad. 

0  Poets  of  every  aeon  and  clime, 

Your  singing  is  naught  but  a  breath  ;  .  .  . 

1  hear  the  desolate  surges  of  Time 

Sob  on  the  shores  of  Death  ! 


152 


FOOTFALLS   ON   THE   STAIRS 


Footfalls  on  the  Stairs 


WHEN  morning  from  the  clouds  of  roseate  red 
Comes  with  her  dewy  and  delicious  airs, 
I  rise  and  leave  my  solitary  bed, 
And  stepping  softly,  hear  the  muffled  tread 
Of  footfalls  on  the  stairs. 


When  through  the  lonely  house  at  noon  I  go, 
Wrapped  in  deep  thought,  and  troubled  with  my 

cares, 

Pacing  the  floors  in  silence  to  and  fro, 
I  hear  those  feathery  sounds,  so  soft  and  low  — 
The  footfalls  on  the  stairs. 

in 

At  twilight,  when  the  lamps  make  solemn  cheer, 
When  each  loved  portrait  recognition  wears  — 
Pictures  of  lost  ones  beyond  measure  dear  — 
As  through  the  halls  I  pass,  I  pause,  and  hear 
Faint  footfalls  on  the  stairs. 


153 


THE   SLOPES   OF  HELICON 


IV 

At  midnight,  when  I  mount  up  to  my  room, 
And  shadows  from  my  glimmering  light  that  flares 
Walk  with  me,  and  above  me  darkly  loom, 
I  listen,  for  I  hear  from  out  the  gloom 
The  footfalls  on  the  stairs. 


After  the  heart  is  stript  and  desolate ; 
After  the  losses,  sorrows,  sobs,  and  prayers ; 
After  the  loneliness  of  life's  long  wait,  — 
Oh,  may  I  hear  within  the  Golden  Gate 
Those  footfalls  on  the  stairs  ! 


T54 


NOTES 

PAGE  27. —  Calliope  is  here  used  as  a  general  name  for 
the  Muse  of  Poetry. 

PAGE  59.  —  The  picture  upon  which  this  sonnet  is  writ 
ten  is  a  copy  of  a  Cuyp  in  the  author's  possession,  not 
an  original,  as  might  be  inferred  from  the  caption  of  the 
sonnet. 

PAGE  67.  —  An  English  writer  of  distinction,  —  himself 
a  p0et,  —  having  seen  this  sonnet  in  MS.,  writes  to  the 
author :  "  In  England  we  pronounce  Euganean  with  the  e 
long ;  but  it  is  of  course  wrong  to  do  so.  It  is  Shelley's 
fault;  he  rhymed  it  to  paan,  forgetting  Martial's  line: 
'  Nupsit  ad  Euganeos  sola  puella  lacus'  " 

PAGE  78.  — Line  eleven.  The  author  has  here  made 
use  of  a  superstition  current  among  the  negroes  of  the 
Southern  States. 

PAGE  93.  — Here,  and  on  page  71,  an  experiment  in 
rhythm  has  been  attempted ;  and  this  is  really  the  raison 
a"  fare  of  the  two  little  poems. 

PAGE  138.  — By  permission  of  Lippincott's  Magazine. 


155 


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